Awake and Alive
by Raven Studios
Summary: "She had me dead to rights. I asked her what she wanted from me, and she answered 'to set you free.' She did more than that." Jaesa Willsaam narrates her various experiences as a Sith apprentice. Spans the original campaign, beginning with her recruitment. (Images in the cover retrieved from the Star Wars Wiki, Star Wars' associated images copyright LucasArts.)
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

 _*Star Wars: The Old Republic_ belongs to Bioware and LucasArts. This goes for the images used in the cover art.

*Special thanks to the Wookieepedia for supplying all sorts of useful information.

*This is the continuation of Jaesa's story as begun in _Welcome to My Nightmare_ and _Rainmaker_. Reading them isn't necessary, since you know the major plot points.

*This story takes into account the prediction made by Ragate on Korriban as a major point: " _The key to your success is a small and sorry creature. But you can shape it in your image if you so desire._ " Thus, the Sith Warrior's 'shaping' will be more than just the gameplay restrictions requiring the superficial extreme Light Side or extreme Dark Side.

-J-

 _Stand my ground and never back down_

 _I know what I believe inside_

 _I'm awake and I'm alive!_

Awake and Alive, Skillet

 **On Beginnings**

I emerged from the quarters the Twi'lek, Vette, and I shared sometime… after… the events of Hutta, feeling rumbled and a little lost. I wasn't sure about shipboard time, but it turned out I'd woken up around lunch, for Her Lordship and the Captain were still sitting at the table. Her Lordship looked odd, since I'd never seen her in anything but her working gear and war-paint.

Now she wore a loose tunic of lightweight plum-colored silk, belted at the waist with a wide sash—black, like the leggings and ankle boots she wore. Around her throat was a black velvet band, and her red hair was piled up on top her head and held in place with filigree-topped hairpins. She wore only discreetly-applied makeup and dark, unchipped polish on her fingernails. Everything exuded expense, class and taste.

In short she looked so unlike a Sith that I wondered if, perhaps, I was meeting her identical twin.

I knew that was stupid. The energy hanging around her was unmistakable, a big, brooding thing, as if she had an invisible rancor hovering over her shoulder, ready to pounce at her least gesture.

"Good morning, Jaesa," Her Lordship called, waving me into an empty chair at the table. "Or, should I say, good afternoon? Tuvi, Jaesa's lunch, if you please." Her low tone was well-suited to the solicitude, the extension of which made me feel odd, as though I'd been shoved on-stage unexpectedly.

Tuvi turned out to be a droid that immediately swept in, burbling happily about having another palate and nutritional profile to manage. He apologized for the meal, since he did not yet have the basic information needed to draw up a proper menu for me, promising profusely that he would do better in future. His anxiety to please wasn't quite servile… he just seemed a little fussy in being able to perform his functions to a high standard.

Regardless, I wouldn't have known if he hadn't told me. The Jedi tend to eat simply on Tython and they eat whatever presents itself when elsewhere. Unless Lady Gesselle required me to join her at table—which was only when she dined privately—I ate with the rest of the servants of a plain diet.

"My lord. If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you to your charge," the Captain declared, rising to his feet as Tuvi swooped down to whisk away his dishes. He looked exactly as he had yesterday, pressed and perfectly turned out. While Her Lordship seemed more relaxed while in residence on her own ship, the Captain didn't seem to observe the same loosening of presentation.

"Of course. Thank you, Quinn." She looked him in the eye, and in every word recognized him as a person, an individual—and one worth recognizing. It wasn't what I expected of a Sith/non-Sensitive interaction. Sith were supposed to see everyone outside their Order as inferiors, barely sentient, if they bothered noticing them at all.

Only after she dismissed him did the Captain turn to me, incline his head politely, and march off—though I had the feeling that the deference thus displayed was 'what was expected' and that this man was in no way cowed or kept subservient by the Sith lord he served. This was also suggested in her tone and expression when releasing him upon his request; I don't know if she considered him _an equal_ but she certainly gave the impression of holding him in high esteem.

He was handsome too, with dark hair and shrewd blue eyes surmounted over a set of high cheekbones. Lean and fit, it was obvious he followed Her Lordship into combat, or at least was ready to if she should wish it.

Given everything I knew—or thought I knew—about Sith, I was unprepared for Her Lordship's table. I expected something extravagant or excessive, rich and thoroughly indigestible. Instead, I was met with fish, vegetables, and some kind of pasta with a light sauce. A cup of fruit and a glass of something pale—like weak winter sun—finished the meal. All of the food was exquisitely prepared, but contrasted sharply with my imaginings of 'Sith decadence.'

I picked up the glass of pale liquid, sipped it, then grimaced. It wasn't _bad_ , but I had the impression it was a kind of wine; Jedi aren't known for drinking.

Water in a glass appeared a moment later, hastily brought by the droid, possibly at Her Lordship's intimation. "It's a weak spirit only," Her Lordship noted, then smiled, a slightly shark-ish look that lit up her orange eyes with humor. "About the _only_ weak spirit with a place on this ship."

"Jedi… don't have much to do with wine," I said uncertainly, not missing that her second remark had nothing to do with alcohol. It was a clever little joke, and I found myself smiling just a little over it. It included me, after all, however I might feel or whatever doubt I had about not being 'weak spirited.'

"What you drink at table is entirely a personal choice. My only concern is whether there is something to which you are allergic," she answered, her tone strangely reassuring for being so dismissive. Apparently my preferences were _my_ preferences, therefore they were of little concern to her. That was, at least, how she made it sound. "If there is something to which you are partial, you should tell Tuvi. He loves special requests."

"Just so, Mistress!" the droid piped up in its oddly high-pitched voice. "I function to serve."

I took another sip of the wine, trying to decide if I liked it or not. Since I couldn't decide any better after a second sip than after the first, I turned my attention into the rest of the meal.

Her Lordship was still picking at her own bowl of soft fruits, so joining her so late didn't feel as awkward as it might have.

"You're very quiet," Her Lordship noted, without a hint of criticism.

I was glad of the open door into conversation the comment provided. "I—there's a lot on my mind… uh, m-my master." It was strange referring to her that way, though I couldn't say why. Maybe it was just because she was so unlike the Jedi and unlike my expectations of a Sith. I wouldn't want to use her given name—it seemed too familiar—but I didn't like the generic Jedi form of address, either.

"Indeed? Is there anything, perhaps, with which I can be of assistance?" She set her spoon aside and gave me her full orange-eyed attention.

"Oh, I…" I stuttered for a moment, soothed only by the calm patience she radiated—and quite possibly up-played for my benefit. "Well… I'm-I'm a little uncertain about… everything. What-what exactly is my role, here? I'm not sure that a Sith novice—apprentice—is exactly the same thing as a Jedi Padawan and…" I trailed off, feeling the worry crease appear between my brows. "I don't want to, you know, get all this wrong." It was a lame way to end a sentence.

She smiled at me. It was not a kind smile—Her Lordship did not strike me as a kind person, per se—but it was reassuring. "I understand. You've been thrown into the middle of things rather abruptly, which is why we will begin your lessons after lunch. In the meantime, what is your expectation of your role? How do you perceive our relationship? So that I may know how to answer you without missing any critical misconceptions you might hold."

I squirmed in my seat, clenching the material of my robes to still the gesture. "I am your apprentice. I obey you in all things, no matter what. My life is yours." It was what I could piece together from my life as a Jedi. They never had anything flattering to say about the Sith Order (though I sometimes thought this was willful blindness, since the Sith had to have _some_ values or studies worth noting—right?).

"That is very close to the traditionalist mindset," Her Lordship responded with a nod. "But the traditionalist mindset is often wasteful. I was brought up differently—privately tutored, as it were. As my apprentice, you are an investment. Whether you rise and excel or die ignominiously is a direct reflection on me. On my training of you. Therefore, your training is something I will always take seriously. That said, you cannot learn if you cannot ask questions."

It made me feel like one of those little meditation trees some of the older Jedi used to grow and prune as a hobby. The ones that, no matter how careful you are or how much you work on it, is never _quite_ done, never _quite_ perfect. But it's a process that can't be rushed either, thus it requires patient dedication. I found myself… comforted by the idea. That my training seemed to be more than just my special gift, that she was looking at me as something, some _whole_ , that required time, care, and effort to cultivate properly. A work in progress.

"So, speak respectfully, particularly when we are in company, and remember that you reflect well or ill upon me. But you may hold your head up and you may bring to me any question, any concern, no matter how trivial. I will do whatever I can to assist you with it. If you feel it necessary, or know it to be so, speak out what you know. I want you to be comfortable, here. If it is easier for you, then think of me a sort of close cousin rather than your master."

I felt a reluctant smile playing at my lips, remembering how comfortable both the Captain and Vette seemed to be with Her Lordship—each after their own fashion—once Darth Baras was no longer a presence. For his eyes, Her Lordship barely noticed the Captain and ignored Vette entirely. For his eyes, the Captain and Vette were properly submissive to the Sith—a submissive Imperial stooge and a slave in lock-step.

I didn't need a cousin, but thinking of her as a kind of familialfigure unknotted some of my concerns. It is decidedly _not_ how the Jedi Master/Padawan relationship operates. Then again, I begin to suspect Her Lordship is not the average Sith, either. "I _am_ comfortable. More comfortable with you—with the Dark Side—than I ever was with the Jedi." I can't lie to myself: I threw in the Dark Side thing because I thought it was what she wanted to hear.

From the expression that crossed her face, I suspected she knew it, but she did not chastise me about it. I had examples, powerful examples, of what came when one was dishonest with oneself. As long as I did not persist in believing the lie and give evidence of believing it, she would let me have my way.

"So. What are we doing now?" I asked.

"We're waiting for the agents Darth Baras sent to retrieve Nomen Karr to deliver him to Dromund Kaas. We shall follow in a few days—it gives you time to acclimatize a little to the many changes you're going through. It also gives me time to ascertain how you have been trained, where you require refinement and where your skills are acceptable."

Evaluations before throwing me into a new environment; I wasn't sure whether to feel comforted or not. "I… haven't been trained much," I admitted, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. The Jedi—Nomen Karr, anyway—were so excited about my gift that I felt as though I'd been rushed through a basic orientation before being whisked away. At the time, it didn't bother me too terribly—I was so much older than those who were 'on my level' which made being around them difficult… and left me feeling distracted me from my studies.

Now, though…

"I know, Jaesa," Her Lordship answered, almost gently. "And, believe it or not, that disservice now works in your favor. I have fewer things to un-teach you with regards to practical application. Your mind is still flexible and adaptable. My concerns are your interaction with the Force beyond use of your gift, the philosophy you've been _indoctrinated_ with—" I almost smiled at the disgust in her tone as she spoke the word 'indoctrinated.' "—and whatever martial skills you have acquired."

Or _not_ acquired.

One only needed to look at Her Lordship to see she valued combat capability. Or rather, I saw it last night. The red arc of a lightsaber flashed through my mind; she should have cut right through me, and done it effortlessly. That moment of terror followed by the realization that I was miraculously _alive_ resonated in my mind, leaving me cold but strangely tingly every time I thought about it.

It wasn't the cold of terror, though. More like… awe. I really did feel that, in that moment, she really truly had severed me from my past. Both of them.

Her tunic of today hid the defined, powerful muscles of her belly and the chiseled muscles of her arms. She might have access to Force but clearly she maintained herself as though she didn't.

"To be honest, the Jedi philosophies left me more questions than answers," I responded morosely.

"So much the better. I hope that I will be able to provide you answers and not rhetoric."

I looked up from my fish, which I found myself flaking idly with my fork. "Do the Sith have a-a code? Or something comparable?"

"We do. But it's more like a…" she paused, twirling her fingers thoughtfully before settling on her next words. "A personal affirmation than a code of conduct. Shall I recite it now or would you like your lunch to be lesson-free?"

"I'd like it now, please." I craved information more than I did food, though I took a few hasty bites to show that I was not rejecting the meal. It was particularly good, light and wholesome and made me realize I really was kind of hungry.

Her Lordship inclined her head, then spoke. Her tone rose and fell, giving the words a cadence that tugged at my guts. "Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion I gain strength; through strength, power; through power, victory. Through victory my chains are broken." She looked up abruptly, her orange eyes catching mine the way a snake's catch and hold a bird's. The sudden contact with those predatory orange eyes combined with the sudden steely bark in her tone made the next words seem to ring in my mind. "The Force shall set me free."

I weighed this against the Jedi Code and found that the Sith Code left far fewer things to question. It was blunt, up-front, and did not have a lot of room for argument or interpretation. It made _sense_. It wasn't an ideal to strive for; it was a directive, an approach to achieving goals. "The Force shall set me free," I repeated, my skin breaking out into gooseflesh.

I remembered our conversation of last night, while adrenaline pounded in my veins and shock of expecting to be dead but not being so yanked my mind to open stillness.

' _What do you want from me?'_

' _To set you free.'_

"Yes." She blinked and the sense of being hooked up to a power cable ceased. It was no Force trick she'd played; it had all been personality and presentation. "Sith believe that recognizing our emotions, allowing them to flow and carry us, is the path to power. To ignore them is not only to put aside a valuable asset, but to hand weapons to an enemy. That which exists outside your range of perception—especially what you willfully keep at bay—is not subject to your will or your control. Repression is a _most_ unwise practice."

"I've seen enough of _that_ to last me a lifetime," I mumbled before taking a sip of my water.

Her Lordship let the sentiment go unremarked upon, and then I realized that what I'd said versus what I was thinking did not translate as I'd expressed it.

"I mean," I added hastily, "I've spent my whole life feeling kept or confined, always having to watch what I say, treating emotion as the enemy. You're right: it's stupid to let things within you happen outside your control." It was a new way of looking at the idea 'Sith are control freaks.' More than that… it made me wonder how inaccurate that assessment really is.

"Ah, I see. Then you are on the right track. Self-awareness is intensely important; therefore, strive for it. It will keep you from insanity or being crippled from within. It is a lesson not everyone appreciates." She proceeded to describe three Sith who exemplified her point: her old mentor Tremel, a Lord Renning on Korriban, and an apprentice at the Sith Academy called Saria.

"I will make it a priority. I won't hold anything back, like I've been doing."

"Be brave, Jaesa," Her Lordship encouraged. "And finish your lunch. Then, we'll discuss your training and get started with it." With that, she picked up her fork again and continued eating her bowl of fruit.

"What will I learn?" I asked, picking at my pasta and—now that I had an abundance of answers and information to chew on—finding that it tasted very good indeed. In fact, with so many things settled I realized I was absolutely starving as opposed to the mildly hungry I'd thought before.

"Lightsaber combat, certainly," Her Lordship mused, hinting that there was a _lot_ to do there, but in a way that suggested my instructors were to blame for my ineptitude. "Force manipulation. Politics of the Sith and the intricacies of Society, since you'll have to move in my circles. So, to that end, there will be some etiquette—though I suspect you have more than a basic grounding, there. An apprentice is a reflection on her master, after all, and I cannot expect you to reflect me well without ensuring you know what you need to know."

I nodded. The list was short, but I still felt overwhelmed.

"A little bit at a time. I promise," Her Lordship added, aware that what she had learned over a lifetime was being heaped on me, more or less, all at once.

It had been a long time since I felt I could put any faith in anyone's promises. It was strange to find myself doing so, now.

 **On Crewmen**

Her Lordship's crew was comprised of two people, in addition to Her Lordship, me and three droids. The three droids were gifts from her family, two for combat practice and Tuvi to serve as a sort of butler and droid-of-all-work. At the very least, Tuvi seemed more than happy with his lot in life. You couldn't poke your nose into the galley without him asking if you wanted a snack, or a drink, or shooing you out since 'anything this close to a meal would spoil your appetite.'

In addition to the droids were Vette, and Captain Quinn.

Vette was a chirrupy creature of pleasant disposition, prone to letting her mouth run. That it ran so freely indicated Her Lordship didn't particularly care what Vette said or how she said it—and the Twi'lek was smart enough to know not to _make_ Her Lordship care—as long as they weren't in company. Apparently snatched from the slave pens of Korriban, she had been gifted to Her Lordship by Darth Baras who had authorized the initial release of Vette into Her Lordship's temporary custody.

Although still a slave on paper, that status was regarded as inoperative by Her Lordship (and somewhat grudgingly by the Captain). Vette neither wore a collar nor was she used as a servant; she was permitted to bear arms; furthermore, provided Her Lordship could contact her and that Vette could appear promptly when called back to the ship, Vette was permitted to move freely when her blasters were not required.

I had the impression that Vette spent a lot of time watching the ship since Captain Quinn joined the crew. The Twi'lek did not complain—why should she, when it was so much safer for her?—but I sometimes thought that she felt a bit displaced by the Captain. Vette had little use for the man, referring to him by a number of monikers, my favorite of which was Captain Starch-and-March.

Vette was good company and seemed to take it as her personal task to make sure I settled in on the _Astral Blight_. Underneath the cheerfulness, and I detected it without using my special gift, was a sort of sad weariness. I thought she was glad to be in a place that was fairly stable. It was clear she respected Her Lordship and possessed a true loyalty to the Sith that would require only a little nurturing to become an unbreakable thing. Her sympathy for me for having had to go through so much pain seemed genuine enough, though she hid this as best she could.

She wasn't someone who liked watching others suffer.

I wasn't sure whether it was appropriate to use my gift on Her Lordship's crew, so I made up my mind to refrain from doing so. Her Lordship hadn't commented on it, so I took it as a vote of confidence that I would know when it was or was not appropriate.

Vette and I shared the dormitory, which was large enough for six or eight people. Her things spilled everywhere; the night before found her hastily picking them up and shoving them onto one side of the room so as to leave the other side available to me.

She had an odd collection of things that made me think of magpies and muskrat dens—only without the nasty connotations of the latter. It was clear she liked to tinker, since there were several small eviscerated artifacts. She also like shiny, silky, or plush materials. The bunk she used had several swathes of fabric inexpertly pierced along one side and hung off the privacy curtain's rod.

It should be noted that the privacy curtain itself, a neutral toned heavy material, huddled at the foot of her bed, utterly despised.

The light curtains had been pushed aside when I came in, revealing fat pillows that (it turned out) she would kick out at night only to toss back into place before she broke an ankle tripping over them the next morning. The curtain was a minor precaution, should the Captain appear at break of day (or the equivalent thereof) for some strange reason.

' _I'm not Her Lordship. His face is the_ last _thing_ I _want to see first off in the morning.'_

Meaning, as I read between the lines, to coldly correct Vette for some prank she'd played. The Twi'lek rubbed him so much the wrong way that I decided she did it out of impishness (rather than malice) and in her own way to let the Captain know he was 'alright' and 'not so bad' and 'not scary at all' in the grand scheme of things. The very, _very_ grand scheme of things.

The Captain did not share the dormitory with us girls, which was something of a relief to me. My closest associates on Alderaan had always been female; while on Tython I bunked with several other girls my age (but further along in their training); while with Master Karr, I had my own room. Thus, a male roommate and a lack of privacy worried me.

I worried needlessly: the _Astral Blight_ , being designed for Sith use, had two private quarters, one for the master and one for the apprentice. Apparently, Her Lordship put the Captain in the apprentice's quarters upon his addition to the crew. I got the impression from Vette that Her Lordship would make Vette and the Captain share quarters, or even an entire _barracks_ , if and only if she wanted the ship or building destroyed.

Having observed what I had about Her Lordship and Captain Quinn, I wasn't surprised to find they didn't share quarters. Had I not observed them both as I had—her with my gift, him with an attention to detail—I might have expected it.

The Captain was a little less stiff aboard ship. He still called her 'my lord,' it's true, but there seemed to be less formality than there was off-ship. Despite the title, it didn't stop him from being exasperated or flustered by her, or from assuming a friendlier tone better suited to using her name rather than her title.

Apparently the Captain was a jack of all trades—medic, pilot, strategist, fighter. His value to any crew was obvious.

When I asked, he indicated he'd been stationed on Balmorra for some time before Darth Baras' machinations brought Her Lordship to that world. His recital of the events of Balmorra—the seizing of it from _ipso facto_ Republic control—was so colorless that I made a mental note to ask Vette about it. It had the skeleton of being a great story, and I was curious about Her Lordship's exploits.

Now, I was not so unskilled that I missed the tension that ran through the Captain at mention of Darth Baras or that he treated the topic of Her Lordship as one avoids a topic he's liable to expound too much upon. There was pride in serving her that there was not, exactly, in serving Darth Baras. I read it that he was obligated to the latter but willingly served the former.

It was also very clear to any Force user with 'ears' that the Captain was miles away from having no… personal interest… in Her Lordship. Quite the contrary… and I think the attraction was strong enough to unnerve him.

This association with Baras made me make a mental note to use my gift on him periodically, should Her Lordship and Baras ever have a falling-out, just to make sure he did not become compromised. I'm sure Her Lordship is quite capable of managing her underlings, but I see it as part of my duty to protect her interests.

Apparently, Her Lordship found the Captain to be more stimulating company than she did Vette. I could see why: the man had a mind like a razor—sharp, dangerous when turned upon a foe… and dangerous to an unwary handler. Interestingly enough, this was similar to the Captain's primary liking for Her Lordship—the physical attraction was very much a secondary thing.

As it was, they usually spent the hours between the end of supper and bedtime playing games. From what I could tell, they usually played dejarik, though they sometimes tapped the droid, Tuvi, for a game of Gambit. As Gambit was a game intended for more than two people, I was immediately encouraged to come and learn so the lessons the game instilled could be considered practical training. Her Lordship mentioned it was a favorite game of her father— _Dahdee_ , she called him—and some of his friends.

It was her second-dearest ambition to wipe the floor with him during a game.

Her first ambition was to wipe the practice floor with him, as he required her to maintain her childhood training schedule if she was under his roof.

I didn't talk much during these games, although Her Lordship and the Captain did converse a little—usually light topics, just so they didn't have to play in silence. Sometimes politics. Sometimes the arts. Occasionally he would ask about something related to Force-users or some rudiment of the training a Sith received. She was judicious and careful when answering these questions—though whether to preserve secrets or because it was difficult to explain to a non-Sensitive, I couldn't tell. Maybe a little of both.

Depending on how and whether she answered, I was occasionally called in to offer the Jedi angle. It was comforting to know that, although asked to supply that viewpoint, I was never treated as a Jedi or a defector. I might as well have been an infiltrator into the Jedi Order, such was the impression I was given.

The Captain had a great many questions about that. Reading between the lines, he'd had a run-in with a Jedi (I could guess who) that had incapacitated him in some way, leaving him desirous of not repeating the experience.

I didn't miss the slightly guilty way Her Lordship glanced at the Captain's ribs before seeming to study the shape of his skull. I wondered what it was about, but suspected it would be unwise to ask.

 **On Personal History**

I didn't learn much about my master for several days after joining her crew. In fact, I learned about her crew—and much about them—before I learned about her. This was not due to her having no time for me, but because she assumed if I needed something, however trivial, I would come to her and ask.

I won't lie: I felt kind of stupid for having waited so long. The stupidity felt less embarrassing when Vette sympathetically admitted that she had had a similar experience—though she didn't say in what context—and that Her Lordship simply _liked_ to be asked, even if she could predict what would be asked before it was.

As it turned out, her full name was Hellanix Balanchine-Renault, but she went by Hella unless formality was needed (or preferred). Her story about her name was that her mother had been seized by foolishness and her father had been too tired one evening to argue with her about the naming of their as-yet unborn daughter.

Her Lordship was a shade taller than average for a woman, but powerfully built which gave a deceptive impression of thickness. Unlike many Force-users who allow themselves to fall into physical mediocrity or even frailty by relying solely on the Force, Her Lordship maintained that it was unwise to put all one's eggs in one's basket and risk vulnerability if one's ability to utilize the Force was ever impinged. There are ways to do that.

The way she smiled when she said it made me think this was the reason she presented to the galaxy at large, but that the truth was far more complicated.

Red hair and orange eyes gave her a fierce look to begin with, a look she played up while in her working clothes by using thick makeup—almost greasepaint—to accentuate the eyes, the hollows of her cheeks, and her mouth. She admitted to me that the habit of painting the upper lip and only a thick line down the lower was a Dromund Kaas fashion statement and not a practicality at all.

It sounded to me that she liked the touch of refinement while rampaging her way through the galaxy.

Take off her makeup and one would discover her jaw was a little on the heavy side and that her lower lip naturally pouted, which made it easy for her to look sullen. Her skin had already acquired that pale alabaster look the Dark Side eventually confers upon those who follow it, though not that pasty white better suited to a Rattataki than to a human. The flesh showed a bit papery at the corners of her eyes, but that was all—she attributed all this to not wasting energy trying to hide what she was as well as a distinctly pragmatic view of violence, bloodshed, and the things Jedi refer to as 'Dark Side actions.'

She was methodical and calculating, my new master. For her, the things Jedi cliché as 'characteristic to Sith' were merely levers and pry bars, _not_ motivations. Not to say I didn't think she enjoyed her work; she struck me as amenable to getting bloody in pursuit of her goals… she was simply less 'unstable' than I'd been led to believe a powerful Sith could be—and she was _definitely_ powerful.

For shipboard life, she kept her cosmetics to a minimum—arguing that putting them on every day despite no one but the crew seeing her was a matter of discipline, the same kind of discipline that accompanied getting dressed, or bushing her hair and teeth. It was the same kind of discipline as putting on her leathers and 'war paint' (though she never used that term)—discipline cuts a path into all ventures; the mindset is everything. She also avoided the 'overly Sith look' when aboard ship, preferring a simple style of dress that, in its very simplicity, screamed great expense.

She was not shy about the fact that she was an aristocrat on Dromund Kaas, though she reiterated in small ways that I was not to hang about as a handmaiden but to pay attention and _learn_ from her examples. I was grateful for this: guess what my first impulse would be?

The Balanchine side of the family was her mother Magdalena's, an old family of nobility who had moved in the Empire's highest social circles for time immemorial. Unfortunately, as Her Lordship said, lifestyles have price tags and her mother was the poor descendent left holding the about-to-fall-due bill.

Enter Sith Lord Augustine Renault. I wasn't completely sure, but Her Lordship made him sound like an accountant, if the Sith had such things, and in controlling money he controlled others. Or rather, he insulated himself from some of the worst a Sith such as himself could expect. In fact, Lord Augustine's real claim to fame was his skill as a swordsman—though not necessarily a master _combatant_ ; he seemed to have a reputation that discouraged testing his ability. It was from him that Her Lordship learned her craft.

She painted him as a monster and hated him in the way any small creature hates the larger creature that wounds it but never kills it. His had been a school of hard lessons, but Her Lordship was quick to point out that she would not be having this—or any other—conversation if it had been otherwise. She'd have been killed long ago. As it was, she'd made great use of his teachings on Korriban and come through the place rather quickly.

So the Balanchine family was reinvigorated by Lord Augustine's money and Lord Augustine joined the high society under the auspices of his wife's name. Her Lordship, then, carried both names and all the baggage both of them bore. As her parents' only child, she was set to inherit everything, but was so glad to be away from Dromund Kaas high society that the idea of speeding up the day her inheritance came into her hands was not even a nascent one.

She also had a godfather, a Moff by name of Timothy Thorne. When she spoke of him, her tone held fewer barbs and, although I couldn't be sure, I suspected she was fonder of him than she was of her own parents. He may well have been the only prominent adult figure in her life to give her a reason for fondness.

Her Lordship had not been threatened with marriage or anything else: her mother taught her to be a socialite; her father trained her to be Sith; and between the two of them—so Her Lordship said—they'd created quite the monster. I had the impression Her Lordship was still just testing her teeth and claws in the larger galaxy and was eager to employ them. This accorded well, since I was only just finding my own.

It was clear that she both loved and hated her family, which I began to suspect was a common Sith trait. Whoever said there was a fine line between love and hate was more right than he or she knew.

I found I shared the curious paradigm. I remember loving my parents. I remember my mother had a kind smile, and my father had gentle hands. I came to them later in life, and was their little joy. I loved them, truly. I was even glad, to a degree, to do as they wished as an obedient daughter should.

I was betrothed at sixteen to a minor noble—a cousin of Lady Gesselle's. The match was partly secured by her good word, because—she said—she was fond of me and it was the best she could think of to do. I'd met the young man several times and although he was probably 'a good man' as Lady Gesselle said, it was only the thought that my rise would bring my parents with me that kept me from rejecting the notion completely. They were getting old, after all.

Sixteen is so far from eighteen, when I could be married.

Seventeen… less so. And as my seventeenth year dawned, I began getting nervous, worried knots in my stomach.

I saw more of my intended and, while there was nothing objectionable, I started to feel caged. Even though I spent time with him I didn't really feel I _knew_ him. He didn't make good conversation; in fact, I began to feel I was nothing more than a pair of ears to hear his tales of personal triumph and a mouth with which to praise him for them. It wasn't hard to imagine myself ending up another relic in his manor, one more pretty piece in his collection. The only difference was that I lived and breathed. I tried to convince myself, at the time, that I was probably doing him an injustice or two.

I didn't talk about my fears or the growing unwillingness to go through with the scheme. I was a good daughter, or so I told myself.

It was why I threw myself on the opportunity to leave Alderaan when my Force sensitivity was recognized. As I look back… I wonder why no one saw it. Then again, in the Empire families hope their children will be Force Sensitive and, maybe someday, Sith. In the Republic… well. Some families are more than happy to let the Jedi have their children. Others… well. Being born Force Sensitive in the Republic isn't remotely the same.

The Jedi plan didn't go over well, either. The world of Tython was pretty, picturesque, not drastically different from Alderaan, though the culture certainly was. Being lectured on controlling my emotions by a five-year-old with a sanctimonious expression? That… was not a good day.

The problem was that I was seventeen; most Padawans are much younger, about the same age as Her Lordship was when her father started training her. I was 'too old' by so many standards. I heard it behind my back so often that I wanted to scream. Which, of course, brought down lectures and cautions about the Dark Side. It wasn't as bad hearing it from people my own age as it was from children half of it… but it was bad enough.

I heard it so often I began to wonder whether the Dark Side wasn't the Tython version of Alderaan's 'Man in the Basement.'

They were right, the Jedi Masters, that it was harder for someone like me to learn the basic skills taught by the Order. I won't lie: I think Nomen Karr was supposed to be teaching me more of these basics and not trying to exploit my special gift so much. Her Lordship was quick to point out, with the critical eye of someone intending to fix what she saw, that my lightsaber work was passable but I was still resisting reliance on anything _but_ my special gift.

 _Never_ put all one's eggs in one basket.

It hadn't taken too long to realize that Karr was more interested in my power than in me. At first, though, I was glad to be off Tython, was so eager to please. This attitude was already crumbling when Her Lordship finally entered my life (albeit not as a physical presence at the time).

I was afraid of her for a long time. But I also grew to admire her—that admiration came too quickly for my own comfort. She was bold, strong, unstoppable. She assailed the logic Karr tried to feed me over, and over again, proved without effort that he wasn't taking my wellbeing seriously since he didn't take the safety of those she could strike at seriously.

It was a hard time for me: I hated her for hurting the people I cared about. But the Jedi kept harping about hate being the road to the Dark Side. I asked Karr, in a fit of pique one day, what I was supposed to feel since we 'don't like' the Sith but we don't _actually_ 'hate' them.

In brief, he fed me the Jedi Code, patted me on the head and sent me to the kiddie table while the grown-ups talked.

I hated her for killing Master Yonlach, a wise if set-in-his-ways old man.

Strangely enough, I hated her less after the deaths of my parents. Killing Master Yonlach, a Jedi, was a protracted affair. From what I could tell—and of what she promised with no lie in her—my parents died quickly and cleanly. I could understand Sith-Jedi altercations being messy affairs, so I was grateful that she was quick and efficient with collateral damage.

And really, if it hadn't been for her master directing her she would never have bothered to get involved with my affairs. So hating her would be like hating someone's lightsaber: the tool that did the deed. I have since decided that I hate her master—a fat old Darth, probably ugly to boot, called Baras—which is fortunate since she isn't too fond of him, either.

I look forward to having a role in establishing Her Lordship in his place. No doubt she will fill the post far better.

When I ventured to express the opinion that this whole Sith thing about masters burning through apprentices like an alcoholic does a free bar, she laughed and agreed. "It is as I once said to my master, upon discovering that Master Yonlach had been permitted to escape so many years ago: 'And now I have to clean up the Dark Council's mess.' To which he responded that 'the Council often lacks foresight.' It is a wasteful system, but as in nature the strongest, the most cunning, the most able survive. Remember this fact of nature."

That was when she described how her father got out of regular Sith politics. His choice would be frowned upon, of course, but he lives the high life in relative safety (relative for a Sith) with a beautiful wife (whom he doesn't absolutely detest), bearing a title both within the Sith and within high society, with a daughter who is a rising star among the Sith, in a big house in the countryside of Dromund Kaas. There were worse retirements, and even the Sith who frowned on him knew it, even if they mightn't admit to knowing.

According to Her Lordship, anything outside the Kaas City city limits is 'the countryside' and it's a statement of wealth and power to maintain a home out there since the jungle's primary purpose in existence is to devour all of civilization and everyone along with it.

I'm not sure if she's joking or not. It doesn't matter: eventually, I'll be able to see for myself what Dromund Kaas is like, since that's where her home and her master are both located.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Tale: Vette**

"The captain is very capable," I noted to Vette as I frowned at my sabaac cards.

"Hmph. He's very _stuffy_ , even if Her Lordship likes him," the Twi'lek answered with a grimace.

"How did he come to join the crew?"

"Ask him. I bet he'd jump on an opportunity to tell you how great and wonderful Her Lordship is." She snickered at this. "He's had a thing for her since she walked into his command center. _You know_ ," the Twi'lek waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

I chuckled at this. He didn't strike me as the type to get star-struck, so the idea of him being completely flattened with admiration for Her Lordship (because that's what he'd call it, if pressed—admiration) and actually showing it was hilarious. I could see what Vette didn't: the Captain _burned_ for Her Lordship. "He did tell me," I answered. "And he boiled it down to six words: she came, she saw, she devastated."

"Well, she _did_ … odd, though, since she was pretty careful how she rampaged," the Twi'lek mused, frowning over her cards. "You know, caught her objective at an angle so no one would see it. Nearly cost her, too—but you know her. Cool as the belly of an ice lizard for someone who's supposed to be raging all the time." Vette shook her head and set down a card.

"So tell me," I repeated. "Please?"

"Ask her," but Vette already showed signs of being pleased to be the go-to person. It made her feel special, useful, valuable. She must have known I wouldn't just give up, which was why she played coy.

It wasn't hurting anyone to humor her. "She won't—you know she won't unless it's for a lesson. She doesn't like to brag. I'd probably get the same answer from her as I did from the Captain."

"Maybe ask him about Alderaan… I mean…" the Twi'lek suddenly turned purple, her expression crinkling into distress. "Oh… I… uh…" Her violet eyes grew round with worried apprehension.

"It's alright," I answered composedly. "One doesn't hold a lightsaber responsible for a kill; I blame her fat master." I wish I had a better slight to offer, something really cutting.

"He _is_ fat. And mean. And scary. Probably ugly, too." Vette shuddered. "Rather talk about Balmorra than him. And Dromund Kaas _sucked_ —lots of jungle, lots of wet and lots of nasty old Darth." She made a gagging noise and gesture I knew she wouldn't do in front of Her Lordship. "So-o… Balmorra, yeah?"

-J-

Author's note: For the duration of Vette's story it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Vette's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

 **Balmorra, Part I**

The Boss and I arrived on Balmorra, which was _way_ too sunny after deep space and Dromund Kaas. It'd be fabulously sunny, once I got used to the natural light. It was warmer than the Imperial homeworld, even if the smell of burnt dirt and something that made me think of powdered duracrete drifted ominously on every little breeze.

The big artillery stationed on Sobrik didn't do anything for my nerves, either. Probably shake the whole garrison with just one shell… those guns firing might be something to see, but only at a distance. It worried me what was down here that the Imperials thought they needed guns that big to shoot back.

I glanced over at the Boss. She'd changed into her working clothes before we began the descent to land and now looked every inch an accomplished Sith lord—not that most people would realize she wasn't actually a _lord_ among Sith. The fact is, she maintained an 'I can chew you up and spit you back out, no problem' attitude that no one with any smarts would want to cross.

She's not nice and I wouldn't call her kind—though she's usually courteous and doesn't go out of her way to make _my_ life miserable—but she's always in control of everything around her. Oddly, I feel safer around her than I would elsewhere.

' _You and me, together, taking down the galaxy. Would that suit you?_ '

Not that I could have very well said 'no,' but there was no point in 'no' was there? So far, she'd lived up to that offer.

"My lord!" An Imperial—kid was a baby-face _barely_ old enough to shave—hustled up, bowing and making it very clear he'd never encountered a living Sith and was terrified of doing something to make her take his head off or otherwise ruin his day… or the rest of his life which would probably be pretty brief. "Lt. Quinn asked me to meet you here and conduct you to Headquarters, my lord."

The Boss' painted mouth curved into one of those condescending smiles that says she could live without the kowtowing of someone cowed before she spoke two words. She's got patience for people who are cowed when she meets them, but it does irritate her. She prefers a person remain un-squelched until she squelches that person herself—so she can control the way they bend and deform under whatever pressures she exerts.

Like she said about that weasel on Dromund Kaas 'I hope others in Baras' operation have a little backbone.'

"Very well, then," she answered in that low purring tone of hers. The relative amiability of it startled the kid. "You may escort me."

I fell in behind them as the lad began to chatter at a delicate prompt from the Boss. The flow of words seemed to restore some of his sense of inner balance, 'cuz he stopped stammering and repeating himself so badly or saying 'my lord' every time he needed to take a breath.

Balmorra, it turned out, was a planet in chaos—kinda figured that out for myself. Seems there's no one—except the Imperial Armed Forces—who _isn't_ fighting the Empire. You could see the irritation dripping off the Boss as she considered this.

The Republic was here. A Resistance was here. The Imperials were here… it seemed to me like the war hadn't ended on Balmorra at all. I felt bad for the folks just trying to get by. The more I heard, the more I decided there was too much burnt earth and powdered duracrete in the air. Wish the Republic and the Empire could confine themselves to space battles and leave regular people alone.

Okay. Moment's over. Back to business. Yeah.

So Darth Creepy wants this Rylon guy dead—like check his breathing with a mirror, dead—but he also wants it done discreetly. Which means sooner or later the Boss gets to play one-woman army with me kinda tossing off bolts wherever I can. She doesn't really need my help. After the Dark Temple, I kinda got that impression.

The kid took us by ground car to this huge building—probably some corporate office tower once, but the Imperials converted it into their military headquarters at some point. As a civilian structure it would have been pretty—it had an indoor garden with a _waterfall_! Unfortunately, the garden had become overgrown and any decorations that might have been in the lobbies or the halls had been replaced by the uninspired red Imperial banners.

The kid took us to what was probably a huge conference room once, but which was now full of tech, monitoring systems and stuff like that, manned by guys in grey. They blended in like they were part of the system instead of running it. Low chatter mingled with the hum of the machinery.

At the far end of the room were a strategy table, a commanding officer's desk, stood this poor little private (or whatever) and the officer who belonged to the desk.

The Boss hung back by the door, watching, almost unnoticed and preventing the kid escorting us from entering the room (he'd let her go first, holding the door and everything).

"I'm sorry, sir!" the kid with the officer chattered in a shrill voice. You'd have thought he was facing down the Emperor, he shook so bad. "It was the best I could do!"

Which was obviously the way wrong thing to say. The officer, apparently in cold blood, grabbed the front of the kid's tunic and leaned forward, his words inaudible but clearly a threat. Or, rather, a promise.

This poor kid. I mean really.

"N-no sir!"

"Then _focus_ , Jillins," the officer concluded, releasing the kid with a twitch of his head indicating the kid was dismissed. Jillins looked glad to get away and didn't waste time before beating his retreat. If he was a little younger, he might have burst into tears.

The officer turned on his heel and started towards the door; you could almost hear the sound of disconnect as he shifted from' Jillins, chew him out' to 'Sith lord, facilitate her business.' "Forgive the delay, my lord," he continued as if he'd been aware of her arrival the whole time. The kid probably got off easy with this guy because the officer knew he was keeping a Sith waiting so the ass-chewing would have to be kept short. The officer seemed to be the only person who noticed the Boss' arrival—well, the two guys closest to the door did. You could tell because everyone who hadn't jumped and looked nervous.

"Lt. Malavai Quinn, at your service," the officer, Quinn, gave a short bow. He had that Imperial complexion—that is to say, very pale. Someone didn't get enough sun. There was something in his blue eyes that reminded me vaguely of the Boss—not a kinship thing, a 'type of person' thing. Guess here's one of the backbones in Baras' operation she was hoping for. "Darth Baras informed me I was to be your liaison during your stay on Balmorra."

I thought he was boring—uniform perfect, hair perfect, clean shaven, the kind of guy who gets himself wound up in knots if his desk isn't left _exactly_ the way it was when he left work the night before. And I had the feeling, from the faint shadows under his eyes, that he put in long hours.

 _Boring_!

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant," the Boss answered. "Hellanix Balanchine-Renault, in the service of Darth Baras."

People—well, people _not_ that Quinn guy—looked surprised that the Boss bothered to give her name.

He was… distracted… from that little detail. It was a weird little instant during which the Boss regarded Quinn, a split second before something behind his eyes seemed to _look back_ , like how glass sometimes flashes when the sun hits it just right. The Boss, like most Sith, can give the impression of looking through a person, but in this case she was simply looking for something—perhaps exactly what she found—that _looked back_. Her eyes seemed to light up when she recognized that looking-back thing. I knew her, so I recognized the way she seemed to come to full alert.

Quinn himself actually responded to the Boss: it was like seeing him take a mild electrical jolt, something perplexing because it seemed without immediate cause. His posture also tightened into readiness—wary, not anticipatory. I think he was surprised because he hadn't known about that part of him, deep on the inside (possibly forgotten under layer after layer of boring), that looked back at her. More than that, I think it unnerved him.

When he spoke though, he still sounded smooth and professional… but his study of her seemed to be one of attention to detail.

And didn't the Boss know it?

"And yours, my lord. I was given to understand you would require a briefing on the climate here on Balmorra. I would, however, suggest that you consider taking it while we key you into the system and make the necessary arrangements, so as not to waste more of your time than needs must."

I knew she'd like that answer. Some Sith might want to be fussed over a bit when they show up somewhere, but when the Boss has an objective the thing that pleases her most and makes her easiest to work with is immediate pursuit of the goal she has in mind.

"How can I say 'no' to such courtesy and efficiency? Please, lead the way." She moved and, with a flick of her eyes, indicated he should precede us. It was only at this point, as he passed, that she really seemed to pay attention his looks.

I followed behind them. It was kind of funny how Quinn led the way but the Boss seemed to be the one leading.

His talk was _boring_ , so I didn't listen. I would probably get another run-down before the Boss started her rampage. She likes to refresh the details, partly because she knows I space out when boring people—like this Quinn fella—drone on and on, partly because she likes to hear her own plan out loud before she jumps (sometimes literally) into it.

Quinn led us to—oddly enough—the infirmary, where they took blood samples from both the Boss and me (so I wouldn't get locked out or arrested or anything inconvenient like that) and where Quinn himself input the necessary security permissions.

"Also," he continued, once the Boss and I had two vaccines against local illnesses that non-natives were apparently weak against, "we've arranged quarters for you and your slave on the fourth floor—unless you have another preference?"

"Don't monsters usually live in basements?" the Boss mused.

I caught the joke—she doesn't take being Sith overly seriously… well, she _does_ , but she can still crack jokes even if they're usually a little morbid. She's scary, but knowing she _can_ crack a joke makes her a little less so. To me, anyway. I don't trust anyone who doesn't have a sense of humor.

"I don't think—" Quinn began, but immediately broke off. "Ah, I see."

Wow. I suspected he'd be slow on the uptake, Imperials being stiffs like they all are, but… _wow_. Or maybe it was relief that the Boss hadn't actually started hitting on him yet, when he was braced for it.

Her joke having fallen flat, which left her pouting a little bit, she went back to the realm of Balmorra's current situation. "If I can bloody the Republic's nose," she mused, "I'll certainly do so. They cannot be tolerated."

Quinn (who wholeheartedly agreed with her on that point, and was glad for the return to professionalism). Wow, he is _jumpy_! She hasn't done anything more than _look_ at him and crack a pretty mild joke. You'd think he suspected her of lining sights up on him.

Anyway, he led us from the infirmary after obtaining permission from the Boss to have such of her things as she wanted moved from her ship to her on-site quarters while she worked. Was that normal? Going out of the way to make sure a Sith could come back to a comfy suite on-site rather than to whatever they arranged for themselves beforehand?

He went into the communications hub long enough to set up the conference between the Boss and Darth Creepy before heading over to the holomap to give the two Sith privacy.

Unsurprisingly from an Imperial, the lieutenant ignored me totally—though he looked a little put out over his strategy map when I plopped down in his surprisingly comfy chair and began to spin it idly. He wanted to say something. It was _so obvious_ he wanted to say something…

…but I thought this attention to his map and focusing on how much my presence annoyed him might just be his way of decompressing after the Boss blindsided him with that… whatever it was… before he took us to the infirmary.

After a few minutes—and just as I began to spin his comfy chair around in circles which seemed to actually _pain_ him—the communications room door opened. "Lieutenant."

That was all it took. He stiffened as if braced for action, then joined the Boss. Wonder what being in a small room with her is going to be like. I dropped my feet and sprawled in the chair, aware how several of the soldiers watched askance, looking back to their instruments with grins and wry amusement at their lieutenant's discomfiture.

I recognized the general aspect of several of them as they put their heads together. Apparently, they didn't know a woman (or anyone else) could grab his attention like she had. They knew him better than I did; so in the way I recognized a great deal from very small cues on the Boss' part, they had the same insight with Quinn.

She rattled him and apparently his famous composure suffered for it. 'Rattled' was a good word.

Now, I'm good at two things: talking and listening. Since there was no one to talk to, I listened.

Apart from her effects on Quinn, the Boss's arrival predictably caused a buzz; no one was quite sure what to make of her, except that she wasn't what they had in mind about a Sith. Apparently, some other lady Sith had come through and put the fear of the Emperor into everyone just by walking by. She wasn't in Sobrik right now, and they were grateful. There was another Sith—a fellow Twi'lek—who travelled with a monster-thing and made everyone nervous. Between these two women, they'd formed a pretty good attitude of 'keep your head down and don't make eye contact.'

When the door to communications opened, everyone fell silent. Only the Boss came out, closing the door softly behind her.

I jumped out of the chair, in case she wanted it (which she did), but kept my eyes peeled. The humor among the soldiers dried up, but they kept sneaking glances at her when they thought they could do so without being noticed.

The Boss just closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep—I knew what she was doing, taking the room's pulse, so to speak. Curious tension began to fill the space. These guys would rather die than admit to having been gossiping about anything that even veered towards the subject of her off-duty hours.

Moments after that, Quinn came out of communications. I knocked the Boss' chair with a foot. She probably knew he was there, but better safe than sorry. Still… I'd kind of like to see her wake up with a start or—better yet—start snoring.

The Boss rose as if pulled by strings, immediately joining the lieutenant at the strategy map.

"I have had," he began briskly, "the schematics and equipment for your assault on the satellite control tower already assembled." With this, he motioned to one of his aides who immediately rose and hurried off.

"Tell me, is this a very significant target?"

"It is reasonably important, if only because it's heavily defended. That was one reason we recognized that its strategic value had changed. It has a veritable mechanical army within." Quinn glanced sidelong to see how she took the news.

Imperials step softly around Sith, but I had the impression that Quinn had some confidence in dealing with this unknown Sith if only because he knew something about her master and could make a few educated guesses about the kind of enforcer Darth Creepy would employ.

Well, fella? You're just getting her hopes up—the Boss loves a good fight but doesn't seem to find them very often. I wouldn't worry about those walking buckets—no offense to Tuvi, who's just a big sweetie.

"An army?" the Boss mused. "That _would_ make the correct impression…" she glanced at me as if inviting me to share the hope of fun.

I grinned back at her, if only because it is kinda fun to watch her tear through a building while I'm picking off her leftovers. I didn't think there were any Sith left that did their own fighting and killing if they didn't have to, but the Boss seems to prefer handling such things herself. Less, I think, 'cuz she's bloodthirsty and more 'cuz she prefers to leave things in competent hands—and she knows hers are.

Bet Quinn would give her an army if she asked nicely, though. Give her enough time and he wouldn't have to: she'd just have to ask in that expectantly inviting way of hers for volunteers.

"Tell me, how much success has Darth Lachris had in her attempts to bring this planet to heel?"

I suppose that's the lady Sith that left everyone so discomposed when she got here—not the one with the monster, the _really_ scary one.

Quinn didn't even blink at the question. "Very little, but her arrival was a recent occurrence."

The Boss ignored the implication that even Sith might need time in which to work. Most Sith are touchy because they want to be touchy but don't really have (or need) a reason. "And she looks for dedicated servants of the Empire, yes?"

"I would imagine so."

The Boss must have seen more than I did—or maybe she was using her fancy Force powers on him, for she spoke as if addressing a spoken concern. "You don't think my master would find it beneficial to have Darth Lachris in my debt? His words through my mouth and into her ear?"

There it is: that sneakiness so odd in someone who likes the direct approach. Sometimes the Boss gives me headaches from being all complex and stuff.

"Ah, I see your logic."

The Boss chuckled and leaned over, one hand moving on reflex to cover the neckline of her vest—as if preventing giving the Lieutenant an eyeful (not a concern, since that thing is _snug_ ). She didn't cover up on purpose, it was a subconscious thing, result of wearing loose garments in her downtime, but Quinn's eyes flicked down to the gesture, lingering for a brief moment before his gaze snapped back up to about nose level… then back up to her eyes.

Zing. There it is again, that weird connection between her and whatever-that-is in his head.

"My mission is _delicate_ , Lieutenant. My master requires discretion in my approaches, but my methods must be crude for very obvious reasons. So, to hide his hand I must find a cover. And serving as Darth Lachris' blunt force instrument—or being one in order to gain her attention—would be a good way to hide such maneuverings, yes?"

Huh. She must be worried about Darth Creepy getting a report she's making a name for herself rather than doing his bidding. Because of course he'd be keeping tabs since this is her first off-world assignment and because Quinn's in a good position to keep those tabs.

By this point Quinn's silent, discreet study of the Boss intensified, like a man gearing up for something. "I see your point, my lord." He probably didn't see why she was telling him, but I did: he's her contact here. He needs to know _something_ if he's going to be remotely useful.

"And if it helps break the Republic…" the Boss twirled her fingers dexterously, tone inviting.

I don't know what she sees in this cold fish, but it's obvious her funky Force powers let her see something more than the big, boring blank I'm getting.

I knew the Boss wanted an answer, but it took Quinn a few minutes to realize it, too. "I believe that Darth Baras will find himself satisfied with your plans, my lord," he responded cautiously.

"But what do you _think_?" The question had a quality like snapping fingers to get someone's attention and prompt an answer.

Quinn's discomposure lasted nanoseconds, during which he surveyed her shrewdly. "The plan is sound, my lord, until Darth Lachris decides to send you somewhere other than where Darth Baras requires you to be," he answered bluntly.

The Boss nodded. "Balmorra's hotbed of rebel activity is here, around Sobrik. If my master didn't intend me to stay within the region, he would have warned me against getting attached to the place."

That's true.

"Now," and there was a sultry quality in her tone that hadn't been there before, but which caused Quinn's already good posture to stiffen, provoked a nervous swallow, a slightly adjustment of feet as if preparing to take a charge.

Huh. Didn't take much to get to him, did it?

"Tell me how to destroy this facility."

 **Balmorra, Part II**

I thought we'd be on our way straight to the satellite facility, but the Boss made a detour.

"Capt. Rigel, m'lord. If you like bombed-to-pieces mudholes, welcome to Balmorra!" the red-faced Captain declared, snapping to attention as soon as he'd scuttled over. It seemed the Boss was expected (or, at least, anticipated) since he didn't seem surprised to see some Sith wander into the building like she had a reason to be there rather than simply because she owned it.

Not that the Boss didn't do that, too.

"Captain."

"If you'll follow me, m'lord. You're earlier than we were expecting."

"Moff Thorne undoubtedly gave me time to be fashionably late," the Boss answered serenely.

The detour suddenly made sense.

See, the Boss is Sith and so's her dad. But her mom isn't, which she says is a weird match for a Force sensitive (I say it means her dad's like her—does what he wants, when he wants, how he wants and if anyone has a problem and wants to brave a less-than-sunny disposition… _schwoop_. Head on floor). One of her mom's closest friends is some Imperial Moff. So he's Moff Thorne to the world, Uncle Tim to her, and the Boss' godfather to people who need to know. Which meant that any briefing Quinn gave probably just stacked up against whatever her godfather could pipeline to her because she's the type to have consulted him before we got here.

"We're the Imperial Consolidation Corps—the Empire moves in and we're the ones who seal the deal."

"Except on Balmorra, it seems."

"Ye-es, that is a bit embarrassing." He even rubbed the back of his neck, looking around as if an explanation might pop up out of nowhere.

Whoa. Understatement of the year.

"More so to have the Moff involve you, m'lord." It was easy to see he wondered why she'd bother and how Moff Thorne got her to bother bothering about the problem since she had nothing to do with Balmorra previously. Apparently he doesn't know about the familial connection.

So her godfather contacts this guy but not Quinn? Eh, maybe it's just not wanting to step on Darth business and keeping to what he knows. Or maybe, the Boss just asked—or will ask—her godfather for Quinn's file, so she knows who she's working with. The Boss isn't opposed to knowing more about everyone than everyone knows about her.

Must be nice, having connections like that. Makes the jobs easier.

"How aware of the situation on Balmorra are you, m'lord?" the Captain led us to what looked like a chow hall and straight to the bank of caf machines by the wall. "Caf?"

"No thank you," she glanced back at me.

"Sure. Been jonesin' for a while, now."

The Captain did his best not to show he didn't like catering to a Twi'lek and did a decent job of it. The caf wasn't bad, either. Home grown, not that nasty Imperial stuff they ration out. It _says_ caf on the container but face it: the only beans that stuff ever saw were the ones on the label.

"I know that it seems that everyone barring our own forces seems to be fighting the Empire. I've also noticed that Balmorra has become something of a dumping ground for Imperial Armed Forces," the Boss answered as I started dumping sugar into my caf. "Those whose value might come in handy… later."

Whenever 'later' is. Ouch.

"True on both assessments, I'm afraid," the Captain owned up, surprisingly unoffended. "There're a lot of hands-off senior officers. Armed Forces is run mostly by the junior officers acting in their superiors' names but without bothering their superiors for permission on every little thing." The captain suddenly chuckled into his caf. "There's a lieutenant at Headquarters got General Wallace to hand over his stamp so he wouldn't have to be bothered. Practically running the division, now."

"Oh, really? And how well does he run it?" the Boss asked. The question was idle, so throw-away—but I knew more about the situation than the Captain did, so it made sense to me.

"Let's put it this way: he's not popular, a very exacting, highly rigid little bastard." Definitely Quinn, even though most people are small compared to this Captain. "However, he provides more stability and keeps the casualties down. His men know it. So they'll hate him but they'll do as they're told. Hell, you'd think General Ivernus would have swapped him out for one of the senior officers—that Major, Pirrell, comes to mind—ages ago. Ivernus likes an efficient garrison." Then, realizing he'd been gossiping, he actually _blushed_. "Sorry, m'lord. Just mess hall gossip. Shouldn't be boring you with it."

"Well, this _is_ a mess hall, isn't it?" the Boss asked soothingly.

"It's also war, m'lord, bloody and limitless," the wrong-footed Captain said, returning to his original thoughts. He eyed her sidelong as if wondering if he'd sold out one of his fellow soldiers. Her willingness to let the matter drop in favor of taking his report seemed to reassure him some.

I turned him out as I studied the Boss. Most Sith have only one interaction with the military (well, two if you count transport): pawns in their Sithy games. I got the feeling, though, that the Boss—maybe because her godfather was military—was a little more… hmm… broad-minded. I guess I could see the benefit to having the military feel friendly—or, at least, be aware that you're the lesser of some evils where the Sith are concerned—toward a person. I mean, she could probably get things done faster or maybe under-the-radar where Sith are concerned without having to _compel_ the military.

I'd noticed the Boss likes to ask nicely—with a hint of menace—first; if that doesn't get her what she wants, she breaks out the Sith brand of persuasion.

Well, Sith-brand persuasion without the lightning. Sometimes I think there's a reason for that, and the reason is that normal people understand a lightsaber more easily than they can the Force. If she can work them over in a way they understand, why not?

Or maybe I'm wrong—what do I know about Sith except that I lucked out with mine?

 **Balmorra, Part III**

We took care of the Captain's problem _en route_ to the satellite facility and stopped at an Imperial post to take in the weather—which was to say for the Boss to make sure we had supplies for a few days and take in some of the local gossip. That was partly my job, since I'd hear more than a Sith might.

Listening and talking. That's me.

Not that I heard much. This wasn't Sobrik, which was more secure. When I regrouped with her after an hour or two she had a new task from a new guy who'd apparently been told that she was amenable to helping… _if_ she was in the right mood and _if_ a good impression could be made.

I got it boiled down to 'let her be in charge and she won't rock the boat to actually try _being_ in charge; impress her and she _might_ be willing to help keep _you_ in charge.'

I liked the mission she'd picked up: it involved explosives. A _whole lot_ of explosives.

I kept my thoughts to myself until we stopped for lunch. "Hey, m'lord?"

"Ugh, these rations are disgusting," the Boss gagged, setting the pouch of whatever aside and grimacing. "No wonder we're having problems, here." She gave the thing a malevolent look.

I chuckled at this, having stuck with the bits I knew were safe. Main-component rations are always gross. However, they're also really high in calories which are something the Boss needs—and knows she needs—since she's been and will need to be jumping around in combat. "It gets better at the bottom," I promised.

Well… it's better because there's less of it, but I didn't tell her that.

"So… we're out here after generators and…?" I glanced over at her.

She continued giving the ration a pained look, then sighed and shoveled a bit more down before using her tongue to try and get the weird slimy coating feeling off the roof of her mouth. Her face contorted into some of the funniest expressions imaginable: an aristocrat shoveling down Imperial rations. Her family probably doesn't let that sort of thing on the family Estate, let alone into eyeshot.

"When someone puts you in charge of bringing a planet to heel, the leadership inevitably looks for those who make waves. We know where our target is but even I can't simply kick in the door and kill him. So, we play a circumspect game. If I'm correct, then the planetary governorship will send me in there on official business, which puts us in strike distance…"

"And no one really _knows_ you're there for a very specific reason," I finished when she glanced over at me to make sure I was following. "What better place to hide a couple more corpses than among a lot of other corpses. Right?" I didn't bother asking how she knew the governor would take notice of her. Probably because of the body count. She seemed sure, and that was enough for me.

"Precisely. The hotbed of activity is here, around Sobrik. We may be sealed out of our target's position, but he's sealed in. Not going anywhere. We have time."

"Time for him to dig in," I muttered.

"They're already dug in. Don't worry, Vette. When we're sent in, we won't be alone. Sith are untrusting creatures. If I'm right about this Darth Lachris—and I know a little about her superior, Darth Marr, though I don't know him personally—she'll have troops at our back at the first opportunity and probably a handful of specialists managing the first incursion. Marr doesn't abide underlings who might fail, thereby making his judgment look questionable. So Lachris won't be cavalier about things."

"You know… you're kinda scary." Then, because the Boss isn't opposed to questions if there's no one to hear them, "Do you… see the future or something?"

The Boss chuckled. "I don't practice the art, no."

I frowned at her. It's not what I'd call an art—either you see it or you don't right?

Conversation must have taken an edge of her revulsion towards the ration because she elaborated between bites. "You see, to pursue the event leaves one less aware of the thread; to follow the thread in increments means you lose track of the event. It's almost impossible to tell whether an event occurs because one acted or didn't act, or fails to occur because one tried to make it happen or because one tried to prevent it. The future has a way of guarding itself—call it destiny if you like. Ignore the promptings of the future and, I believe, one has more latitude to influence one's destiny. Otherwise one beats one's wings against a cage."

…okay, so it's more complicated than 'you either see it or you don't.' "Huh. Is _that_ why Sith are so big on destiny?"

"An older Sith is smarter than to hear 'big destiny!' and get worked up or excited over it. Sith conversation is full of manipulations. Those two—'great destiny' and 'I have foreseen it'—just happen to be some of the unsubtle ones." She sounded truly disdaining of them. "They work remarkably well on younger Sith, those who feel least secure in their place in the galaxy. Enough lessons on the Sith for today, I think."

I let the matter drop as she finished her ration pack.

"I thought you said it was better at the bottom," she almost pouted.

"Well… there's _less_ of it, isn't there? And now it's _all_ gone so…" I shrugged. "Try the cookie. Those are usually safe. Um… _one_ more question?"

"Perhaps," the Boss answered.

I waited until she'd nibbled on the cookie and seemed to think it was okay.

"Your boss—Darth Creepy— _he_ sees the future."

"He may even have a gift for it," the Boss agreed. "The future is always in motion, Vette. Darth Baras is not a fool: if he relies on such visions he will do so only with regards to the short term, little things. A lot of little things can add up and influence larger things in the direction one would like to see. So, you see, neither paying full attention to the thread nor to the desired event."

"Like a weather forecast: pretty good for today or tomorrow, not so accurate for next week."

"Precisely. Now, this time I really mean it: no more Sith lessons." She didn't sound angry, but she was definitely done with her meal and done with the conversation.

Honestly, I sometimes wonder why she's so willing to answer my questions… well, some of them. Maybe because she knows I can't do much with the information. Maybe she thinks it'll help me be more useful. Or maybe today really was just about getting through the high-calorie bad-tasting rations so she got on a complicated subject that required a lot of attention.

Trust me, I have no problem in making myself useful. I lucked out getting this Sith for a boss: Tuvi does all the housework.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: For the duration of Vette's story it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Vette's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

 **Balmorra, Part IV**

We needed two days to get to the satellite facility because of the generators and the job from the _next_ next guy—it involved stealth generators and, yes, I pilfered one while no one was looking. Why not? Spoils of war, right? It was one of those times when the Boss used the Force to creepy effect—she knew where every one of those stealthed jokers was and _exactly_ where they were.

It was a pretty cool trick; it totally looked like she just had eyes in the back of her head, or that they were going through some kind of pre-choreographed thing.

The satellite facility was pretty straightforward. The Boss went in like a battering ram. I provided suppressing fire, finishing off anyone she maimed and left in her wake. It wasn't a complicated mission on the whole.

And then came the 'boom.' I liked that part.

We needed a day and a half to get back to Sobrik, so we ended up crashing at an Imperial outpost, much to the amiability of the garrison there. I couldn't help but notice that the guy in charge seemed a bit more attentive to the Boss' needs and wishes than he might have been had she been like any other Sith. I won't say he or anyone else was _happy_ to have her there, but better her than some other Sith.

When we got back to Sobrik, the first thing she did was send me up to the room to make sure it wasn't bugged.

It wasn't, so either someone had already swept for them or maybe she was just being paranoid—but I suppose paranoia works for Sith. The long-lived ones, anyway. Not that I expected us to share secrets or anything. Maybe she just didn't want an audience if she brought someone back to the room. Sith are supposed to be pretty lax about that sort of thing.

The room was nice, with a cot slipped into the closet presumably for me, so her 'slave' would be close at hand without breaking up the scenery—so here's hoping she _doesn't_ bring anyone back. I don't want to know. Or sleep on a chair somewhere. There was a bed, a desk with a lamp, a private holoterminal. It seemed like a nice hotel room, and when I say 'nice' I mean 'nicer than the usual quarters at a place like this.'

The Boss' things—and a couple of mine, no doubt thanks to Tuvi—had been brought up, the bags left just inside the door where no one could trip on them.

"You're on your own tonight, Vette," the Boss announced, taking her hair down from its high ponytail.

"Oh." Wow. I thought Quinn was going to make her work a little harder… I had the feeling the 'someone' I mentioned earlier would have to be him. She hadn't so much as looked at anyone else.

The Boss chuckled at this. "Don't worry, he hasn't disappointed me." Because she would be disappointed if she thought for one second a guy was being easy because she was Sith. I'm not sure anyone wants to see the Boss _truly_ disappointed. I've seen it; it's not pretty. "Alas, I'm just dining in the officer's mess. It's invitation only and likely to take up most of the evening—more, if conversation is stimulating."

Meaning she's going to be picking brains. If Quinn's there, being an officer, he'd better bring his A-game. Or not, if he wants to avoid attention, but then we're back at the 'disappointed Boss' thing. I almost feel bad for the guy. The Boss isn't crazy like a lot of Sith but when she sets her attention on something… look out.

"So you're excused to do as you like." As she spoke, she rummaged in her bags, laying things out on the bed.

Not for the first time, I found myself studying her pretty clothes. This dress was a very sleek peacock blue-green silk with blue and green crystals embroidered about the neckline and in bracelet-like cuffs at the end of flesh-toned sleeves. I knew what that was about: hiding the training scars all over her arms.

"Awesome. I'll hit the cantinas and see what kind of trouble I can find."

"If trouble finds you, name drop. We're back in the field tomorrow. The plan hit a snag and we need to straighten it out."

I nodded but didn't ask what it was—mostly because she finished laying out her clothes before grabbing a towel and vanishing into the refresher.

 **Balmorra, Part V**

I opened my eyes in complete darkness at a sound. It was a footfall but too heavy for the Boss. I slipped my hand down to my blaster and sat up carefully—the cot creaked a bit if it wobbled too much. I'd gone to bed before the Boss came back, around twenty-two hundred local, so I had no idea when she'd returned.

"Lord Grathan sends his regards," a hissing male voice said before he yelped.

I awkwardly kicked the door open to see a Sith in the usual black dancing away from the Boss, his pale expression twisted into resentment. The Boss' upraised hand left no doubts as to why. The lightsaber in her right hand seared the eyes in the darkness. The second weapon jumped to her other hand, the twin brightness enough to dimly illuminate the room even as she got to her knees.

I yelped as the assassin Force-dragged me in front of him. I went limp as I slammed into the assassin, not because I was scared, though I definitely was, but because the Boss never misses. If she wants to hack a man up, she'll do it—and it was best to be out of her way when she got started. My sudden dead weight dragged the assassin out of balance, forcing him to release me in order to avoid the Boss' killing blow.

I don't think he expected her to care whether she killed me; I was just something between him and her lightsabers.

Free and able to move, I let off two shots, neither of which connected with him but both of which hit the curtained-over glass that afforded a look over the atrium. The heavy sound of the bolts hitting the window indicated heavy-duty safety glass.

The assassin whipped out his own lightsaber, a short thing meant for being closer to a target than most Sith like to be.

I moved out of the way of the fight. In such close quarters, it was hard for either of them to make any headway. Finally though, the Boss managed to draw the tip of one blade across the man's chest, peeling the first layer of leather apart to reveal a snug shirt underneath.

That seemed to seal something, for he tensed, then turned on his heel. He was an assassin and needed an element of surprise. The Boss could work with an element of surprise but really didn't need it. This guy was fragged the minute he woke her up—assuming she hadn't already been awake, just feigning sleep the way cats and lizards do. If _I_ woke up at a strange footfall…

The window exploded outwards in a shatter of glass and the assassin followed it, jumping down into the lobby.

The Boss wasn't having that: she followed in two bounds, regardless of glass and bare feet.

I rushed to the ruined window as security alarms began blaring—probably triggered by the shattering window.

The Boss had the glass cleared in one brutal motion of her hand before she landed, sending it all flying at the assassin who had to stop his flight in order to deflect it or risk being cut to bloody ribbons. The pause let the Boss have a half-second to compose herself before she lunged forward, jumping into the air as she did so. She landed with enough force to shatter the ground beneath, staggering her would-be assailant.

The assassin barely managed to block her first strike, and was only just fast enough to catch her off hand by the wrist.

Grappling was apparently _not_ something the Sith Academy or her private lessons included, for the assassin easily managed to throw her to the ground. The Boss landed heavily before rolling away from her opponent before he could skewer her like an olive for a martini. He had to turn his lightsaber off to get it free from the floor and came close to paying for the seconds that took: she nearly took one leg off at the knee.

I realized, as I watched her regain her feet as if pulled by strings, I was absolutely no help up here.

Not that she'd want help just yet.

I hurried down the stairs—faster than elevators—and arrived to find the Boss bleeding from several cuts which looked like grazes from flying glass… or little bits of it when the assassin threw her to the floor. She was definitely making headway in keeping the assassin from getting away. I could only guess that he wouldn't be trained for a straight-up fight, lacked the endurance the Boss had, and that she was counting on his getting tired. So she would just hammer on him until he made a mistake. Then… _schwoop_. Head on floor. She doesn't like taking chances so she's a big fan of decapitation.

"No one gets in or out!" Quinn's voice barked. He appeared a half-second later, tousled, shirtless but with his sidearm drawn, belt and holster hanging from his free hand. It looked like he'd been rousted out of bed _just_ as he was falling asleep and wasn't happy about it. Or maybe he wasn't happy about the security breach. The lines of 'not happy' smoothed out as he watched the Boss hammering on the assassin who had, by now, realized the lack of wisdom in letting her wake up (assuming she hadn't already been awake) to deliver a snappy little 'oh hey, by the way' comment before slitting her throat.

It was like Quinn had never really consciously thought of the Boss as a woman, never really took in her looks until now. Sounded like willful blindness to me, but I suppose if he had to wake up to the fact it was best to do so when the Boss is in her element.

The additional Imperial security beginning to choke off the atrium wouldn't stop the assassin from going anywhere, but it would force him to deal with anyone in his way—leaving his back open to the Boss, who looked seriously pissed off by this point even without all that greasepaint she wears. Sweat stood out on her skin, beginning to dampen her hair and make her pajamas stick.

Quinn never gave the impression of tripping over himself in order to support the Boss' mission. Now, though he looked absolutely mesmerized—not that he was the only one. He was just the one who caught my attention since he was the one the Boss was eyeing.

It _is_ pretty cool watching the Boss do her thing. I don't usually get to just stand around watching since I'm supposed to be covering her. It was over in a split second during which the assassin, worn down and thoroughly on the defense, missed a beat. His head was off his shoulders in one clean swipe.

The Boss stood where she was for a moment, ignoring the blood trickling down her arms, breathing hard. You could almost see the normally-invisible energy of the Force around her, like a heat haze… or it _should_ have been. You _don't_ actually see the Force, after all… but there was something strange happening in the air around her.

Then she straightened herself up, turned off her lightsaber and awkwardly shoved both of them into the waistband of her plum-colored pajama pants. She strode over to the head, picking it and the assassin's lightsaber up.

I elbowed Quinn who still stood there apparently dealing with some issues. The Boss might dress for bed so that she can charge into battle if woken in the middle of the night, but she's going to forego wearing anything that isn't comfortable. The soft cottony pajamas highlighted her figure—most of which is cinched up pretty tight when she's dressed for the field—and Quinn was obviously interested in that.

He shook himself before striding forward.

"Mind the glass," the Boss declared before waving a hand, sweeping as many of the remaining fragments as she could into the atrium's centerpiece and out of the way of bare feet. "Box these up." She handed the head and the lightsaber to the nearest guard (who fumbled one, then the other). "I'll need a piece of paper and a stylus," she declared. "I'll be in the mess hall. Vette."

"My lord, you should really let someone look at your arms," Quinn began, motioning to one of his men—the little one he'd been snarling at the day we arrived—to fetch the required paper and stylus. I had a feeling she was going to write Grathan a sweetly worded nasty-gram.

"Yes. I'll be in the mess hall," the Boss repeated.

Quinn conducted her to the mess hall then disappeared.

"Caf, m'lord?" I asked nervously.

"Water, if you would. That damnable snake!" she hissed, frowning at her arm as she thumped her other hand on the table. " _Dahdee's_ going to laugh himself silly if he ever hears about this."

Her dad's a psycho.

"He won't hear it from me, Boss. Or Quinn, either." Then, because I thought it might soften her humor. "He was enjoying the show, by the way. And I think he likes your PJs. _You_ know."

Quinn reappeared a moment later, paper and stylus in one hand (I thought he'd sent the kid to get them?), a medkit under his other arm, and belt, holster, and sidearm properly arranged. He placed the paper and stylus on the table, grabbed the nearest chair, then swung it around. "If you'll permit me, my lord?"

The Boss offered him her left arm as she frowned at the paper and began to write. The note was exceptionally succinct. "Vette, please fold that up for me." She set the stylus down and held the note out to me. She didn't bother looking at me, since Quinn had her undivided attention.

I really do think he was _just_ checking to make sure all the glass was out… but once he was sure, there was no point in not enjoying the view. "These aren't very deep. Mostly superficial," he announced. He looked up to find her studying him. "My most profound apologies, my lord. This should nev—"

"It was a Sith matter and nothing the Imperial Armed Forces should have been contending with. You did well keeping everyone out of my way," the Boss responded firmly.

Quinn didn't look pleased at being let off the hook. Eh, what kind of masochist is he? Frankly, you'd think he'd be relieved that the Boss wasn't screaming and snarling about how this was even allowed to happen.

Which could only mean she knew it was coming. I guess I figured she was out of reach, or that Grathan wasn't going to make a fuss if he hadn't by the time she left Dromund Kaas.

"Nevertheless, I shall redouble security and have you moved to a new room," Quinn answered beginning to place little pads of gauze over the nicks and cuts.

"Which leaves me with only one question," the Boss said gravely, but I knew her well enough to see the playfulness behind the gravity. She glanced at me, indicating by doing so that she'd heard and filed my remarks about Quinn, and winked.

"My lord?" Quinn asked, looking up.

She leaned forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. His letting her get that close just went to show that he hadn't shaken off his admiration, yet. He seemed to stop breathing. "Did you enjoy the show?"

I could have broken out in screams of laughter as Quinn's expression went from calm neutrality—even concern for the Boss—to realization that he was a breath away from kissing distance, that she was disheveled and still high on adrenaline, and he wasn't wearing a shirt.

His eyes flicked to the lacy neckline of her tank top.

"I… it was certainly inspiring, my lord," he managed with effort. Good thing his flunkies aren't here; they'd be screaming with laughter at his discomposure… and might not be able to get out of the room before starting.

The Boss leaned back, restoring polite distance. "Good. There's no point to a private fight in public if no one really enjoys the spectacle."

"I daresay those present will never forget it, my lord."

Hm. Wonder who'll be having funny dreams tonight. I'm thinking… him. Definitely him.

 **Balmorra, Part VI**

Just after breakfast, Quinn showed up with one of the doctors to check on the Boss's wounds. He'd _said_ they were all superficial, but as he was only certified for combat medicine he would feel better blah-blah-blah. I think he had the doc so he wouldn't have to deal with whatever feelings the Boss dredged to the surface.

He doesn't strike me as someone good at dealing with _feelings_.

The Boss wasn't having that. Once she _looked_ at him (and that thing in him looked back) she told the doc to get lost and that if Quinn was really that worried he could check into it himself. I couldn't tell if he was pleased, or leery, or what. "In the meantime, I need you to find someone for me," the Boss said as Quinn undid the little gauze patches and re-cleaned and re-covered each of the major nicks.

I dunno if Sith can use the Force to heal damage to themselves, but most of the smaller nicks were fully healed.

"My lord?" the question was stilted, and he didn't look away from what he was doing, like he didn't want to get distracted by her.

"I'm looking for a Republic soldier. His name is Durmat. I need his posting and anything else you can find."

I frowned at the Boss. Durmat?

She ignored me, but that wasn't surprising.

Guess he's the wrinkle she mentioned the other night.

"Ah…" Quinn looked like a man doing some quick mental filing after something fell into place.

"I take it my query has been anticipated. Darth Baras called?" she asked, after a moment's thought.

"He did, my lord, but he didn't summon you or ask about you. He simply left the task of assembling the information to me and said you would understand. It was so early that I was reluctant to wake you before I had any real information to present. The dossier, however, is complete. I can brief you now if you like."

Aw, he let her sleep in this morning.

"Please."

"The Ensign Nigel Durmat is actually Ensign Nigel Rylon. He goes by his mother's name, probably to protect the boy, or keep the Republic military's ridiculous officers from promoting him beyond his capabilities." So much for someone being kept out of the loop. I think I see where this is going, though: the poor kid's a liability whether he knows anything or not. "They've been known to pay attention to a name and assume skill runs in the family. I can assure you, my lord, that is _not_ the case here," Quinn continued briskly.

Having completed his attention to the Boss' arms, he pushed his chair well back from her, as if less proximity would help.

Where does he keep all this crap? I mean, a guy's head is only so big (all jokes aside) and if he only just got stuff compiled this morning… either he's a true freak or he wants to make a really good impression. Being an Imperial officer, one guess is as good as the other. If you are what you eat, they need to cut back on the starchy foods.

"He's being held at the Republic Crater Outpost… and it seems that the Jedi Investigator was summoned to speak with him. You can easily get there before she does—my men are under orders to delay her wherever possible and whenever possible if it can be done without alerting her suspicions."

"What do you know about her?" the Boss asked, getting to her feet and pulling her lightsaber belt about her waist.

"Very little, my lord, but I have a holo pulled from tapped security capture," he handed over a datapad with a static image, revealing a woman with dusky skin and bright eyes. She looked a bit on the shrimpy side.

The Boss studied it. "It seems like you have the Republic well-infiltrated.

"Imperial Intelligence re-upped their interest in Balmorra a few months back and saw to it," Quinn answered. "I suspect they're glad they did. I've heard that Darth Lachris is quite… exacting."

"Very well. Now, I have one more question. What is Major Pirrell responsible for?"

Quinn blinked twice at the unexpected question. "He's… military intelligence," he answered, composing himself quickly. "As you know, a minor officer serving under Col. Sartius—you met them both last night."

And from her expression Pirrell hadn't made a good impression. "Very well. Is there anything else?"

Quinn hesitated, then produced a holopad. "Remembering your intentions to… obscure… your and Darth Baras' hands in this matter, I looked at my list of contacts within Imperial Armed Forces near where you'll be operating. I've narrowed them down to this list. If you wish to continue making waves for Darth Lachris to see, then these gentlemen have problems that have proved… difficult… to fix."

I peeped over her shoulder (or around it, really), recognizing one of the names—that Rigel guy said we might call on him if the Boss was in a helping mood. Not that he said it like _that_.

"That will take some of the guesswork out of things," the Boss nodded approvingly. "Thank you, Quinn. This is beyond what I expected."

Quinn nodded. "It's an honor to serve, my lord. Consider it an apology for last night's gross—"

"It was a Sith matter," the Boss cut him off smoothly, but not without reassurance. "I do _not_ expect Imperial Armed Forces to involve themselves in such things." Her tone suggested there wasn't much anyone but a Sith could have done, anyway and that he should let the matter remain in the past.

"Very well, my lord."

I got the feeling he was relieved to hear it and appreciated the sense behind it. After all, what's an army grunt gonna do? Throw himself on an assassin's lightsaber? Plus, if the guy's an _assassin_ what're the odds he'll get picked up by a random patrol who just happen to have time to raise the alarm?

Lucky Quinn, he got a pragmatic Sith to work with.

"Excellent. Keep me apprised if the Jedi investigator starts for the Crater Outpost and ensure I have an ETA should she do so. Durmat has priority over whatever else I may end up doing."

"I will see to it personally, my lord."

Of course he will. Personally, I think he _does_ like her and is just hung up on the whole 'she's a Sith' thing. So, because he likes her, he'll handle whatever to keep face time to the maximum before she leaves. I can name four of his lackeys who'd be _more_ than happy to fill in for him when it comes to face time with the Boss… on or off the clock.

 **Balmorra, Part VII**

The plains of Balmorra were _gorgeous_ —or would have been if they hadn't gotten more and more riddled with the scars of bombardments and munitions. We sorted out two or three of Quinn's contacts before the Boss got to the Republic Crater Outpost.

I say 'sorted out' because the Boss presented the impression she was not happy about having to mop up so many messes. It wouldn't do, after all, for anyone to think she had a leash that could be held, or that she could be approached about other people's problems too easily. So she was prickly and condescending… but she was helpful to the Empire's cause. More than one officer got the sharp side of her tongue about Balmorra being a dumping ground, and understanding why such-and-such an individual was there.

I think part of that was genuine: she's got little patience for ineffectiveness and Balmorra is something like ten years of accumulated ineffective.

When the Boss contacted Quinn to see if he had any kind of floorplan or guide to help her find Durmat once we got in, he was able to provide both. And, since he had her on the line, let her know that the Jedi investigator didn't realize there was a problem since she was currently puttering about the Balmorran Arms Factory.

I guess she'll get with the program once the guy she wants to question dies because a Sith kicked in the door.

The Republic Crater Outpost was heavily defended, but the numbers didn't mean much. The Boss went through most of them like wet tissue paper until we finally got where we were going. With all the carnage, only someone who knew something about Durmat and Rylon would suspect that the base had been hit for one reason and one reason only.

Anyone else, I guess, would just see a good bit of mayhem. The Boss is _fantastic_ at causing mayhem. It was kinda funny to see some of those little low-ranked soldiers scatter like cockroaches the moment she noticed them. Discretion. Valor. Better part of. Especially if you've got the Boss bearing down on you with that kill-happy glow she sometimes has going.

Durmat was being held in one of the detention blocks for 'disciplinary reasons' but also because the investigator turned up the link to Rylon and figured questioning the kid would help build her case. I say she should've started with the kid and moved up but hey, what do I know?

"Will you pipe down already?" a gruff voice demanded as the Boss paused outside the detention block. "Something's going on."

Wow. Nice catch, Capt. Obvious.

"Aw, c'mon, Zixx… throw me a bone!" a high voice wheedled.

All I could think was 'Wow. What a weasel.'

"Who's this agent that's coming to interrogate me? At least answer me that, will ya?"

A predatory smile crossed the Boss's heavily-painted face, making her look even more psychotic than usual. Tell you what, put that stuff on and she can be one scary lady… not that she isn't usually. Just for different reasons.

An eloquent snort ensued.

"Fine. _Fine_ —stay clammed. I don't care who it is, I'm not talking. No one's gonna get nothing out of me. _Nothing_."

Clearly he's never heard of a Jedi mind trick. They can make you spill your guys just by telling you to. Messed up stuff…. I had to wonder if the Boss could do that if she really wanted to. Come to think of it… Sith usually just _bully_ you into doing what they want. Jedi're the ones who use their little voodoo tricks. Usually. I mean, you never hear that kind of persuasion called a 'Sith mind trick' do you? You'd think it would be called that.

Huh.

"When I go in, wait here by the door and watch this end of the hallway. Make sure no one sneaks up on us, but if there are too many don't engage them," the Boss declared in a low tone.

I nodded at this. I could pick off a few guys, but if the guy in there has a panic button or something I'd be fragged if I was on my own.

"Alright, alright, I ain't proud, I give!" the whiny weasel suddenly… eh… whined. "My dad's an Imperial agent."

The Boss gave a soft hiss of disgust.

I wanted to know how this Rylon fella—smart as he's supposed to be, being undercover like this for so long—was dumb enough to share something like that with this whiny little weasel. I mean, come on. The investigator's not even here yet, he's not even being _threatened_ yet, and he's already rolling over on his dad? Please.

"What did you say?" the gravelly voice asked, sounding utterly floored. "The Commander's a what?"

"Yes," the Boss declared, sweeping into the room, " _please_ repeat that, Junior." I hadn't heard her so coldly pissed off in a long, long time. Back on Korriban, when that guy she was having problems with tried to give a little speech in his dying moments. Or maybe with Grathan's wife and kid—she seemed to think that Mrs. Grathan was the worst kind of Sith.

' _Before you kill us, I must know: what have we done to deserve death?'_

' _Deserve_ _death? Whoever said this was about you? And that a Sith—wife of a powerful Sith lord, a_ _renegade_ _Sith lord—should ask should ask_ _that_ … _'_

The Boss had been so angry she hadn't been able to finish her sentence. That's one of the places the Boss gets complicated. She knows that she's a target either on her own merits, her father's, or her boss'. The only thing to do is take precautions against known enemies and make sure her precautions are better than homicidal plots. Then she's got to worry about Darth Creepy turning on her. I think what really gets to her is when people hide behind weak plans and then try to beg, reason with, or bribe her when she breaks through those plans.

It really pissed her off that a proudly self-proclaimed Sith hadn't had a full appreciation of the delicate position she had assumed in life. And it disgusted her that said Sith relied on weak last-minute wheedling attempts to save herself rather than having put any real thought into the possibility of being acted against beforehand.

You wouldn't catch the Boss trying to weasel her life back by serving up her husband, for instance.

"—not a who… it's a what…" Durmat stammered, voice thin like a string. "S-s-s—"

"The word you are looking for is _Sith_ ," the Boss declared, enunciating clearly.

A loud sound made me look away from the hall. She'd lunged at the guy with Durmat—Zixx—and landed on his command console, slicing his head off neatly before he could even think about punching in for help.

Or, if he did, we'll be out of here or close to being out of here before help arrives.

"Z-Zixx…?" Durmat squeaked. I angled myself so I could watch the corridor with one eye and the Boss' chat with the other. "Zixx! Talk to me, get up man!"

Durmat, in his cell, shied as far away as the narrow bar-enclosed space would let him. The Boss glanced at the other prisoners and in a few quick movements snapped their necks using the Force. She doesn't often make shows like that; I sometimes forget she _can_ if she really wants to.

"Look at me," she commanded.

Durmat cringed and groaned in the back of his throat. "M-maybe if I don't look, you're not… you're not really here—"

Oh, good grief.

"Aw blast… I _looked_ …" the boy whimpered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut again.

"You," she opened Durmat's cell by wrenching the door open through the Force before gesturing to him. "Come here."

Durmat didn't move except to tremble and slip down further towards the floor.

"I said _come here_." A soft gagging sound indicated the Force had coiled like an iron band around his neck. The fact that he got up and obeyed showed it was just a tight grip and not a true stranglehold. He stopped when she held up a finger. She'd got him lined up for a clean swipe.

"Please, please," the boy rasped. "I know why you're here. My dad— _urk_ —the Republic's investigating my dad and-and an agent's coming to put the screws to me."

"You've figured it out."

Sometimes I don't understand the Boss at all. I remembered the whinging, cringing guy Darth Creepy sent to meet us on Dromund Kaas and she didn't bat an eye. The more Durmat whinged and cringed the angrier she seemed to get. Well, less 'angry' and more 'insulted.'

"I-I won't break, I promise. Just… let me live… my dad's secret is safe with me… I'm a… I'm a rock!" By now, the kid was gasping between words, his face a bright pink.

Secret safe? As if. The investigator hadn't even showed up and he lost his—

Well. First I said it, then he did it. Gross.

"You must think I'm an idiot."

Mistake number two: she _hates_ it when people assume things like that.

"F-fine… you're an idiot… if it'll save me I'll think whatever—" His statement dissolved into gurgles. "Please… my dad has done so… much for the…"

"I know. It's why I've let you speak this long. I was hoping to tell him you died bravely. Thank you, for ruining my day."

Meaning if he'd shown courage she'd have made it quick and clean—she respects courage even if she still has to kill a guy.

A sharp snap and the gurgling ceased, followed by a heavy thud. The Boss, looking absolutely homicidal, appeared in the doorway. She looked so pissed off that I immediately backed away. She's not intemperate, but I like to walk soft if someone manages to piss her off.

"Uncle Tim always said showing nepotism in the military was the worst thing a man could do. Now I know why," she growled, then started off the way we'd come.

Some of her rage made sense: Rylon had to know his son wasn't the bravest, most closed-lipped person in the galaxy. So what did he do? Spill his guts and keep the kid close. At the very least if he'd had the kid somewhere else the brat might have survived. The Boss doesn't get kicks from killing like she's just done. She thinks it's beneath her dignity; she really hates it when her job demands it. Not that she's ever moved—or ever likely to be moved—to pity, mostly because whining and pleading irritate her further.

Her personal code of conduct is so complex it makes my head hurt.

 **Balmorra, Part VIII**

We _were_ going to spend the night at the nearest Imperial Outpost, but the Boss decided to push to get back to Sobrik—not to see Quinn or because she needed to, but because she was so out of sorts she didn't want to unsettle operations with her bad mood.

By the next day her temper had burned itself out, much to my relief. She wasn't cruel to me or anything, but her mood was so… oppressive… that I nearly spent the night at the local cantina. It wasn't even temper by that point just… she was grumpy, I think, because she'd suffered such a loss of temper. She prides herself on being angry to some purpose, not giving way to fits and sulks. She was really off her game during and after the whole Durmat thing.

"I am pleased to announce that inquiries were made about you, my lord," Quinn declared, presenting the Boss a datapad.

"Good. Then I should be hearing something soon," the Boss answered calmly. "Now, the only thing left is the Balmorran Arms factory. I trust you have a briefing prepared?"

"I do, my lord." He led her over to the holomap and began without preamble.

It sounded like some pretty heavy stuff—like a thousand well-trained guys and their support grunts heavy stuff. And it's called the Balmorran _Arms Factory_ which means lots of high-tech guns—or worse. Not all of us can deflect blaster fire with an oversized glow-rod (and the Boss does it with two).

"An incursion into the Arms Factory will be a monumental feat," Quinn concluded, looking away from the map of the Arms Factory—or what map there was—to study Her Lordship. Unlike that first day, when he looked at her he really seemed to drink her in, like he wanted to engrave her into his memory, like she was worth being remembered with accuracy in the little details. It sounded to me like his next words were… spur of the moment, or meant to stay in his head but his mouth didn't get the memo. "I'm excited by the idea of you laying waste to that place."

When the Boss looked up, she had a predatory smile on her face. There it was again: that spark that snapped between them. "So…" the Boss purred, straightening up to study Quinn. "I excite you, do I?"

Ugh. Only she would be happy about that. I don't see what she sees… probably just as well.

You'd have thought Quinn had just stepped on a snake the way he recoiled, his expression immediately turning wary, his posture tensing up.

The Boss cocked her head, resting one hip on the edge of the holomap—posing for his benefit, no doubt. It worked, too. "W-Well…" He had to stop and swallow, the biggest show if discomposure I'd seen on him so far. He wasn't even this nervous after that assassin paid the Boss a visit and he tried to apologize for the incident. "What I meant was…"

He looked away from her, at a spot past her shoulder.

Hey fella—she's not like your usual crazy Sith. Just in case you hadn't noticed. She's not gonna take your head off if you say 'thank you but no thank you.' Although… depending on _how_ he said it would depend on whether she listened. I get the feeling she doesn't get led on a merry dance after something she wants very often.

"What I meant was when I think of all the ways you will shake the galaxy I get very excited. Yes." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, the wince visible on his face.

The Boss leaned forward so the conversation would stay private, catching his eyes as she did so. "Admit it. You like me, don't you, Quinn?"

"My lord," Quinn said, regarding the map rather than look at her. "Is this an appropriate time and place for such an inquiry? You're putting me in a very… awkward position."

I half expected her to make a little joke about positions (awkward or otherwise), but she didn't. She simply stopped perching on the holomap and spoke seriously. "Perhaps you're right, Lieutenant," she said, returning a formal tone to the conversation—much to Quinn's apparent relief. "Continue the briefing."

He checked to see if there was any trace of ire in her expression, any threat against him for derailing the track of conversation she wanted to follow. Some Sith get touchy like that, but not so much with mine. She's not your usual psycho.

"Alright." He took a breath and swallowed hard in an attempt to regain his rattled composure. "Worth mentioning are Rylon'selite squadron of commandos—you'll have to go through them to get to him."

"They must be special if you think it necessary to call them out particularly," the Boss observed.

"They are responsible from some of the most precise, improbable Resistance victories on Balmorra—practically legendary," Quinn warned seriously, though he relaxed a little now that the conversation was moving in a safer direction.

"A high recommendation, coming from you. I look forward to the encounter." It's taken time to realize that it's not so much that the Boss is bloodthirsty (usually) so much as she's like a Mandalorian: she likes to test her mettle against things so she knows where she stands with regards to things in the galaxy. I won't say she doesn't get weird Sithy kicks out of a good rampage, but that's neither here nor there.

"I have marveled at their tactical exploits," Quinn admitted, "but it will be a bright day on Balmorra when they're finally eliminate—" Quinn paused, his hand going to his ear. "A moment, my lord—?" He almost didn't wait for her to nod, having accepted that she was a very practical kind of Sith. "I see… Yes, do that… Do _not_ lose track of her and do not—no. We'll discuss it once I've finished with Her Lordship. The matter is delicate. Call a meeting in my ready room in…"

Her Lordship nodded her assent.

"…ten minutes. Quinn out. Pardon the interruption, my lord—the Jedi investigator has just set out to return to the Arms Factory from poking around the Crater Outpost in the wake of your visit. I have her under minute-by-minute surveillance and will be able to let you know should the situation alter in any way."

"Good. If we bottle her up there, I may be able to dispense with her sooner rather than later."

"I will be here to salute you when the Balmorran Arms Factory is a smoking husk," Quinn declared.

The Boss gave him one of her catlike smiles, but she didn't follow it up with a cute comment. She didn't need to. "I leave things here in your capable hands, Lieutenant."

The vote of confidence seemed to have a double effect: on the one side, he brightened at it; on the other he seemed to mistrust it.

Wow. She's gonna have this poor guy _all_ up in knots before we leave. Still kinda wonder what she sees, though. Looks like a bit of a stiff to me.

Uh… maybe not the _best_ choice of wording, huh?


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: For the duration of Vette's story it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Vette's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

 **Balmorra, Part IX**

"My lord," Col. Vrain bowed formally. "Let me be the first to tell you how appreciated your work has been. Today, the Balmorran Resistance backed by the government in exile takes its last, pitiful gasp—largely thanks to you."

The Boss inclined her head out of courtesy, but not of real interest. I don't think she'd have bothered without devious ulterior motives (or the fact that stuff just seemed to be on our way anyway).

"It won't be long before the corpse of former Defense Minister Vol Argen is cold in the ground."

You'd think the guy could look a little more enthused. I'd never heard someone so apathetic about a major victory—which, I guess, killing this Vol Argen guy would be. I try to stay out of the politics. Anyway, this guy makes Quinn back in Sobrik look energetic and raring to go… maybe even less boring! Gasp-shudder! I didn't think it possible.

"Has he come planetside yet?" the Boss asked.

"That _is_ the rumor, but as long as Operation Breaking Point succeeds his death is only a matter of time. The Resistance has made its headquarters in the Balmorran Arms factory, as you may or may not know."

The Boss nodded once.

Well, it might not be that Lachris Darth, but it'll give her an excuse to go in. I think she really wanted to be… what, deputized?… by the Darth.

Sith politics and stuff. Like I said: I stay out.

"It's a heavily fortified facility but it's not invulnerable. Especially not with such a powerful patriot as yourself on our side—"

She _is_ kinda patriotic for a Sith, isn't she? Even if she's getting something back.

"Her Lordship's involvement with Breaking Point will no longer be necessary, Colonel," a sweet voice interrupted Vrain, politely but with the air of someone who had a right to intrude upon the conversation.

The voice belonged to the most fragile-looking Rattataki I'd ever seen in my life. She might be just a little more than five feet tall, skinny rather than slender, and looked so delicate that one accidental collision with someone else could break her, or that a puff of wind could send her blowing away like puffball down. Despite her Imperial greys, she wore dark lipstick a delicate sort of silver… headband? Tiara? The blue enameled ornament rested just above her painted brows, an odd touch of color and femininity.

"Forgive me, my lord, for interrupting, but I felt it prudent," the Rattataki smiled at the Colonel, who looked disgusted at being suddenly overruled by this alien who talked like she had every right to do it, however polite and deferential she made herself sound.

She had black shoulder tabs on her uniform, with a gold teardrop on both: she's in direct service to a Darth.

The Rattataki was followed by three other women: a red-skinned Twi'lek, obviously Sith with an air of crazy about her, who sucked gently on her forefinger looking sulky and bored—a slave brand stood out viciously on one high cheekbone; a tall, strapping human female with a good figure for someone that strong-looking and wearing that much durasteel, the carbonite unit on one wrist and the flamethrower on the other leaving little doubt as to _her_ profession; and another Rattataki of sturdier build and greater height than the one speaking, who seemed sullenly bored to snores.

"I beg your—" the Colonel began.

"I'm having a bad day," the Twi'lek Sith said, frowning at him, her orange eyes malevolent. " _Don't_ add to it. Or maybe _do_." There was a giggle in her voice that made me shiver. This was someone who liked to make others squirm because she _could_ , so unlike my Sith.

The Colonel silenced himself with a squeak as the bounty hunter gave the Sith a sidelong look of wry resignation.

The Colonel better watch it: the Sith looked like she could get creative with people who messed with her on a bad day.

"On the authority of Darth Lachris," the Rattataki continued with only a deferential nod to the Twi'lek, "apprehending Vol Argen is no longer to concern Lord Renault or Lord Kallig. The matter is beneath them both. It will be handled by Ms. Korin and myself."

The durasteel covered woman held up a hand with an affable smirk to indicate herself as the bearer of that name. The gesture caused the thick, curving tattoo in her cheek to undulate. Her dark hair and dusky skin made her stand out among the palate of pale and red that formed much of the group. Of everyone, she looked the healthiest by normal standards.

"And this is… from Governor Lachris, you say?" the Colonel asked pugnaciously.

"It's true that my superiors _may_ have seen fit to station me here in hopes that a bit of extra elbow grease will smooth along this problem," the Rattataki answered delicately. She fished out an identity card, then handed it politely to the Colonel.

He snatched it, then scowled at it. His expression unknotted, something like fear settling into the lines. The Rattataki's smile grew all the sweeter in response to it. She could have charmed baby birds out of their nests with a smile like that. "I… see. Very well, Lieutenant… Claire."

There is no way that girl's a lieutenant. I think the only one who really cared was the Boss.

"Thank you so much, Colonel. I'm sure Darth Lachris will appreciate your fervor for ensuring this mission's success. Meanwhile my lord, if I may presume," she bowed at the waist and waited for the Boss to indicate her assent, "Darth Lachris would very much like to meet with you, to discuss a matter for which Imperial Armed Forces alone may not be enough. She sends her compliments."

I highly doubted that. It was just the Rattataki being polite on behalf of a Sith. From the look on her face, the sulky Rattataki agreed with me.

"Of course. I would be remiss in not honoring such a politely worded invitation," the Boss smiled.

"Thank you, my lord," Lt. Claire smiled before inclining her head deferentially and starting off.

"I see you came through things well enough," the Boss addressed 'Lord Kallig.'

"Tolerably. I'm surprised you recognize me."

"Oh, when one travels with a monster as ugly as yours, it makes one difficult to forget. Have you disposed of it?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

I shuddered as we reached the open air, where several more people waited. Well, a human girl and a… monster-thing. Monster-thing was a good word. The girl—a skinny cyborg—immediately fell in beside Korin. I thought I might have run into the girl once or twice. Then again… I get that impression about a lot of people.

Korin—whatever her first name was—leaned over to the skinny cyborg and spoke quietly for a few moments.

"Seriously, _this_ is why I liked working with you," the cyborg responded enthusiastically. "Nothing quite makes my day like hearing 'double payday.'"

"I know, right?" Korin grinned, her low alto a sharp contrast to her comrade's squeaky voice. Not that, maybe, I should comment on squeaky voices.

"Least someone's got her priorities straight, right, _Lieutenant_?" the other Rattataki asked, giving her comrade a significant look. "Why does our pay scale suck so bad?"

"I'm sure my priorities are quite in order, _Specialist_. The cantina's having half-price Corellian Sunsets tomorrow," Lt. Claire responded imperturbably.

The second Rattataki grimaced as though the title chafed at her, but she quickly grinned at the mention of Corellian Sunsets. "Huh. Drink you under the table, then. Pay scale still sucks."

"You're welcome to try, of course. Here we are. I'm afraid I must ask that your attendants remain here, my lords, also your associate, Ms. Korin. Kaliyo." The Lieutenant carded open an elevator and motioned the two Sith and the bounty hunter to go ahead of her.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Kaliyo waved dismissively, her sulky expression not changing one bit.

"This is _tiresome_ ," Kallig groused. "Stay here, Khem."

'Khem' growled, gargled and flanged its—his?—disapproval.

"I know, but there's really nothing I can do about it."

More unintelligible babble.

"Well, I know _you_ could do that, but how would _we_ get out again?" Kallig asked, giving Khem a weary look.

The leer was unmistakable: _'I_ could but you? Not so much—that's kind of the point.'

Kallig unexpectedly giggled, bringing her knuckles to her mouth to stifle the sudden sound and hide the smile. "Oh, don't be that way. Just stay here and try not to maim anyone. It sounds like there will be plenty of opportunity for that soon. It's important that we pace ourselves. I'll be back shortly." She patted the monster on the arm—he growled at the gesture but made no move to shake her off—before entering the elevator, which Lt. Claire held open for her.

I looked at the three remaining people. The monster and Kaliyo both ignored everyone.

"Hey, girl." The skinny cyborg announced, moving over to stand with me as she came to the same conclusion I did: she and I were the only friendly, polite people left in the galaxy. "I'm Mako."

"Vette, nice to meet you."

"His Sith looks pretty psycho," Mako announced, indicating the monster who made some unintelligible comment I don't think anyone understood. I think we all got the gist of it, though.

"Yeah. Hate to see her if she got bored."

We both shuddered at the very thought.

About half an hour later, the elevator came down, swooshing open to reveal the foursome who'd gone up.

"Double payday," Amala (according to Mako) said, handing Mako a piece of paper with the air of a magician producing a flower out of someone's ear.

Mako's eyes widened. "Amala, you are the _best_."

"Yeah. Leave the hard work to the Sith." Amala's tone suggested 'leave the hard work to the _suckers_.'

Kallig glared at Amala's retreating back, delicate fingers tensing as if her hand itched. Itched to send a current running through all that durasteel, I'll bet.

"See you outside, El-Tee," Amala called carelessly. "Bit stuffy in here."

"See you," Mako hissed before hurrying after her much larger companion.

The Boss had that smile, the one she wore when things fell neatly into place and didn't require any special tweaking to get it to do so.

 **Balmorra, Part X**

"We're hunting the Resistance's leader—he calls himself the _Grand Marshal_ ," the Boss announced, a delicate sneer in the title.

Although the Boss and I were alone in the ground-car taking us to whatever forward operating base we needed, she was taking no chances of anyone knowing what we were really there for. Kallig and her monster were in another vehicle, partly because both Sith didn't want to be in close quarters with one another and partly because you just couldn't fit four people _and_ the driver into one of these little things if one of those people was Kallig's monster.

"Here. I asked Darth Lachris for a copy of her holo of our target." The Boss handed it over.

I cued it, regarded the big, solid wall of… Grand Marshal, right? He wore his head shaved except for a thick thatch, like he was planning on growing a mohawk but got the back of his head shaved by accident. He had this weird shoulder swagger, even when he was standing still, like he was posing for photos, making sure everyone got his good side.

" _My friends in the Resistance. I won't take much time. The Empire says it owns Balmorra. The Republic says 'it's yours, we're gone.'"_ And his voice was _annoying_. All in all, he came across like an actor in a bad recruitment campaign. I felt my features twisting up in distaste. " _But you and I know Balmorra's won by sweat and tears. And my boys will stand by your side until_ _everyone_ _knows it._ "

…was that _supposed_ to be inspiring? 'Cuz I wouldn't find that inspiring if it was me. "His speech sucked," I announced.

Her Lordship chuckled. "It did. Grand Marshal Cheketta—"

"Seriously? _Cheketta_? That sounds like something you'd have for breakfast! Hey, let me have a Cheketta and eggs." I grinned at the thought. "Cheketta with extra gravy? Blue bantha cheese on a Cheketta roll? Ooh, ooh! Cheketta on toast!"

The Boss chuckled, even as she waved a hand for me to desist. "He will be, if Tsellesh—that's Kallig to you—is involved. But enough with the jokes—though I'd love to see how many of those you can come up with." That's one thing about my Sith, she's got a sense of humor and isn't so bound up that she can't exercise it a little… when the timing is right.

"I'll write you a list, m'lord," I answered smartly.

Add to list: Cheketta burgers. Not really a breakfast thing, but…

"Back on task, please. Now, this former Republic Army gundark has supposedly severed ties… but we know that's not true. Darth Lachris wants him dead and I must say I'm inclined to agree."

Sign one death warrant and prep him a toe tag, then.

"Now, Tsellesh and I will be the point of the spear for this. You and her Khem Val will provide support." She paused to give me an interrogative look.

"Uh… is Kallig half as crazy as she came across? 'Cuz I've gotta tell you, she seemed kinda crazy and I'm not thrilled with crazy. Not that my preference really counts, or anything," I added hastily.

The Boss regarded the terrain, her expression slowly twisting. "I think that she's a few banthas shy of a herd, yes. But she seems to make it work for her. As long as she keeps her lightning and our hides from becoming acquainted, let her be as crazy as she likes."

Cheketta on toast, then. Almost literally.

I shivered. The Boss isn't into big Force displays and I've never see her use lightning… but everyone knows it's a Sith trick. I remember the last time I saw a Sith use it. It was… well. Yeah. "Got it. So, one flunky in need of a toe tag."

I didn't mean Cheketta and she didn't think I did.

"Precisely. We have three goals: one, open the factory for Lachris' army. Two, proof of Republic involvement. Three… toe tag assigned." Her Lordship's expression grew wry before she closed her eyes and settled more comfortably in her seat.

She'd let that Kallig loony have Cheketta if it came down to a choice between Rylon and whatever Lachris wants. "This sounds like a pretty risky operation. I mean, six to eight people versus, like, a thousand troopers in a pretty small area? Plus, _arms factory._ "

"More than that—eight is simply the initial entry party. Once we're in, we open the factory and Lachris' troops pour after us. She's had this planned and ready to implement for some time. She's simply been looking for the right advanced party," the Boss answered. Then, after a moment of contemplation, "I like her style. No time wasted once she has everything she needs."

Wow. That's quite the compliment coming from the Boss.

 **Balmorra, Part XI**

It was scary, and this coming from someone who knows a lot of about differing levels of feeling afraid. I wasn't scared for me, of course: it was just scary watching those two Sith carving their way through the Arms Factory with that weird monster-thing—Kallig insisted _he_ was a _Dashade_ and _his name_ was _Khem Val_. And she looked like she would take it very badly if these little data points weren't remembered.

Not that this had the least effect on the Boss.

Nope. The Boss had her lightsabers out and was in rare form.

Kallig was the one with the lightning (which was way too unpredictable, getting a _little_ too close on several occasions for me to do anything but make sure no one came up behind us) and Khem Val… well. He'd throw himself into any group he could find—which meant the Boss kept him on one side of Kallig, herself on the other, and used the crazy Sith as a wedge to drive our way forward.

I don't think the Boss liked Kallig very much, as time went on. The other Sith seemed so unstable, like a roller-coaster car with loose bolts, rattling around until something went wrong. If I didn't know better, I'd have said she was scared and pissed off because she was so scared… but that can't be right.

"I'll manage the computer," the Boss declared as Kallig shook out her hands as if flicking water off of them.

Khem Val warbled at Kallig, who glared at him. "If you don't like it, then stop 'helping' me with my kills. I can do my own killing, thank you," she announced tartly, giving her _lekku_ a toss.

I ignored the warbled rejoinder and glanced at the Boss. She has this thing about doing her own killing too, like it'd be a bad thing if she had or let someone else do it for her. I guess I could kinda see her point: don't rely on anyone, because they may be gone one day. If she wasn't such a stone-cold, durasteel-hard wrecking-ball of a woman I might feel sorry for her.

As it was… if I had to feel anything it would probably be admiration. She's Sith and she's scary, but she's strong enough that she doesn't need to broadcast the fact. Poised and in control of her temper, she was someone a girl could look up to. And I do—it's not like she's not decent to me. She doesn't have to be.

"Darth Lachris, can you read me?" the Boss asked briskly.

" _I read you,_ " Lachris declared, her image coalescing on the Boss' holocom.

"I'm lowering the barricades… now."

" _Scanning the facility…_ " suddenly, the holo began to flicker. " _Hold on… someone—"_

The link severed, making everyone not watching (which was everyone but the Boss) turn to look.

The form of Darth Lachris vanished to be replaced by Cheketta. " _Pardon my interruption_ ," the Grand Marshal announced, sounding so smug it made me want to barf. I mean, the Boss sounds smug _a lot_ but at least she's usually got good reason. " _I'm_ —"

"Cheketta on toast," I breathed. He just doesn't know it yet.

The Boss' mouth twitched and Kallig gave one of her psycho-sounding giggles, stuffing her knuckles in her mouth to stifle the sound.

"— _Grand Marshal Cheketta,_ _formerly_ _of the Republic Army."_

"So, you're the proud leader of all these gutless wonders," the Boss answered snidely, gesturing to the facility at large with one unlit lightsaber.

" _If they're so gutless, why haven't you beaten them yet?"_

Duh. She just got here. Can't hold her responsible for everyone else's action—

…I can't believe I just thought that.

"So it's taken the better part of fortnight. I'm _only_ human," the Boss smiled serenely. "Just sit tight."

Cheketta's expression twisted. Everyone knew he meant 'you' as 'the Empire' but it's true that the Boss has done a lot of damage in the two weeks or so that we've been here.

" _I'm not a complete fool—_ "

"You don't have to be," Kallig declared, her orange eyes narrowing with deranged anticipation. "We've got company," she added.

I turned, ignoring the Grand Marshal as several troopers and a man in robes swaggered— _swaggered_!—into the room. "Uh oh… looks like we've got a fight on our hands," I breathed.

Khem Val warbled something at me, then glared at Kallig as if expecting her to translate.

"He says it's nothing and for you to stand back. I _think_ he might even mean it kindly," Kallig clarified, sounding surprised.

"Jedi Knight Raylon Nys, reporting," the Jedi announced pertly, as if this ought to have _meant_ something to the rest of us.

Well, fella… it doesn't. Will you be disappointed if I tell you it doesn't?

I backed away as per Khem Val's suggestion, then edged to one side. It's hard to shoot around the Boss, and harder still with the Boss _and_ Khem Val. Throw that loony Kallig into the mix and it's just easier to watch the damn door.

"Tempus Squad, reporting!" the trooper nearest Nys announced.

Wow. These guys are really pleased with themselves, huh?

" _Fresh volunteers_ ," Cheketta declared, " _who've taken a leave of absence to join the Balmorran Resistance_. _A taste of what's coming._ " The threat was there. Neither Sith would take _that_ well. Especially from a man who was little more than a hologram.

The Boss began to smile, that pretty smile that means she's about to wrench someone's guts out of his belly before he knows what's going on. The smile that says 'every major gift-giving holiday has come early!' I thought I could see why: Jedi and Republic Troopers—they're still in uniform even if they're 'on leave of absence'—can be interpreted as actual Republic support.

I mean… that's what it looks like, no matter what the idiot with the bad hairdo says.

"Then we'll send them back to their Republic…" Kallig gave another of her deranged giggles, though this one sounded like anticipation, "…in _pieces_ …"

The Jedi's expression tightened as he regarded Kallig, who seemed to have eyes only for him, like a child shown a toy she wanted to play with. And when I say 'play,' I suspect high levels of both voltage and amperage would be involved. She looked ready to light that guy up like a Nar Shaddaa advert-board just to see how bright he got.

Few banthas short of a herd. Absolutely.

" _If that turns out to be true, I'll shed a tear_ ," Cheketta responded serenely.

Big talk from a guy who's not here.

"Then I'll remember to pick up a few tissues—" the Boss answered implacably.

She didn't get to finish because Kallig started the party early, throwing a net of electricity at the Jedi with a kind of shrill grating not-quite-scream. Khem Val and the Boss jumped into the fray (literally in the Boss' case) while I leveled my blasters, looking for an opening.

Kallig let loose a snarl as the Jedi blocked her attack with his lightsaber. She raised her other hand and within moments forced him back, back…

He took a blaster bolt from me, which broke his focus, giving Kallig the upper hand.

"I said I _don't need any help_!" Kallig shrieked.

I tried not to see, hear, or smell what happens when a living body gets hooked up to that much electricity. It's… not pleasant.

 **Balmorra, Part XII**

We finally found Cheketta in a docking bay with a shuttle and a small cadre of men. By now, the Boss was thoroughly disgusted with him or maybe she was just put out over having run with that crazy Kallig all over the Arms Factory to stop an invasion no one saw coming.

Or maybe all of it.

I thought it was more rubbing shoulders with Kallig, who seemed to draw on anger based on fear rather than just anger in general, for so long. It's true. Kallig seemed to get nastier and stronger the more reasons she had to be afraid—of dying, of failing, of whatever. It was kind of sad. I had to wonder what could do that to a person.

…but the fact that she was in the Empire and had lekku supplied a few ideas. Regardless, girl's got some _serious_ issues.

Of course, once she gets wound up she also gets all excited and kill-happy. So yeah. She made my head hurt.

"The fleet may be lost—" a man was saying as we crept in quietly (I noticed that the Boss was careful to keep Kallig where Kallig couldn't just go in lightning crackling all unexpected-like), "—but my Padawan and I can hold the Imperials while you regroup."

"No, you've got your ship, we've got a few of our own," Cheketta answered, still in that stupid bad-recruitment-advertisement voice of his. Yeah, he still makes me want to barf. "I want you to get the noncombatants and the wounded off Balmorra."

"That worm," the Boss hissed. I dunno what had her hackles up this time—unless it was this particular backup plan after all the pretty little speeches we'd been subjected to. Or maybe it was the fact that he wasn't anywhere near the frontline by this point— _especially_ after all those pretty speeches. I mean, he talks about fighting and bleeding with Balmorra, but he's in a hangar without a fresh scratch on him—more than that, he's got a Jedi escort and they looked pretty shiny, too.

The Sith had to _gut_ the Arms Factory to find him, Mr. We're All In This Together.

Maybe the Boss is just too used to fighting her own battles to appreciate rear echelon leadership. I mean, there're puppet masters like her creepy Darth, but I didn't think him and Cheketta at all comparable. I don't know, it's complicated, maybe.

All I knew was that I didn't like him either. I mean seriously? 'Save the wounded and the noncombatants' while he's standing in a hangar feet from a shuttle's loading ramp? What's he even doing in here? He's no stranger to combat, after all.

Jerk.

"You can have him," Kallig offered in the friendliest manner I'd seen from her so far.

The Boss' smile was grim. "Thank you." She immediately strode into view, lightsabers ablaze. "Grand Marshal Cheketta. It seems I forgot your tissues."

"…after we handle this," Cheketta added as the rest of us filtered into view, his Jedi igniting their lightsabers as they realized the party had officially been crashed. It occurred to me I ought to be surprised they hadn't sensed or whatever that Her Lordship and Kallig were here. "You're damn tough, you know that?"

"And you're hiding in a hangar with a Jedi escort talking about saving noncombatants. That doesn't change my opinion about you and gutless wonders," the Boss sneered as she glided forward.

" _You're_ here and not on the field, aren't you?" Cheketta asked.

The Boss checked her pace, then beamed at him, a murderously sweet smile. In case he hadn't noticed, she's dragged the frontline up to him on purpose; she wasn't running away, or trying to. "I was going to kill you, Grand Marshal. Now I think I'll let you live." She made it sound like the worst thing she could do. I mean, some people might laugh at this but… it sounded like a heavy-duty threat.

"You _what_?" Kallig asked, appalled.

"Nose out," the Boss answered in a 'you wanted the Jedi, you gave Cheketta to me' tone.

Kallig shrugged, rolling her eyes at this unwarranted clemency.

"Grand Marshal, we can cover your escape," the Jedi said, giving Kallig dark looks, as if he felt something innately _wrong_ about her.

"That's not necessary. Let's see what an old man can do for his troops."

"The time for such actions has come and gone, I'm afraid," the Boss said. This time, she seemed in synch with Kallig, for the instant the loony started throwing lightning around, the Boss was up in Chektta's face.

Wouldn't you know it? His armor seemed to have had something done to it that reduced the effectiveness of her lightsaber.

With two melee fighters and that loony Kallig, I did the best thing I could: I made a run for the shuttle and with a few well-placed blaster bolts made sure it wouldn't fly even if someone did manage to get up the boarding ramp.

"Tell your mistress I got bored," Kallig announced once her targets were down and while the Boss continued hammering on Cheketta (who had been forced into a defensive mode). With this, she simply turned around and meandered off, taking Khem Val with her.

The Boss hammered on Cheketta for a while longer and then…

…slipped the blade of her off-hand lightsaber between two of the plates in his armor. She hadn't been wasting energy on him: she'd been looking for the weak spots. Apparently the segments weren't as resistant where they touched.

She turned her lightsaber off and watched Cheketta land heavily on the floor.

"Good fight…" Cheketta panted, grimacing in pain, "you've got… something I don't have anymore."

"You might have given me a good run if I found you on the field and not huddled back here with Jedi bodyguards," the Boss announced cuttingly.

I knew what that meant: if you hadn't pissed me off so bad and handed me weapon after weapon in doing so. I know that much about Sith. It occurred to me then, that she wasn't really _angry_. She was simply _disgusted_ , maybe even _disappointed_ that this hero-type turned out to be of weaker constitution than she gave him credit for being, throwing enemies at her rather than coming out himself before she cornered him and gave him no choice but to fight.

Not angry. Just disgusted. And here I thought I was starting to understand the Boss a little. Maybe not as much as I thought.

"One stroke of my lightsaber and you're a corpse on the floor," she declared.

"I'm aware… please wait."

She said she wasn't going to kill him and I think this time she means it. Remind me never to get her disgusted with _me_ , because I had the feeling she was going to make life a lot worse than death would be.

"I know how much the Empire wants to expose the Republic's… involvement… with Balmorra. Publically."

I glanced back at the entryway, wondering if he wasn't trying to buy time for reinforcements. Then again, if Kallig's out there… well. Yeah.

"I'll confess the truth of the invasion… _if_ you help my men."

Uh oh. That's not a good direction for this conversation. Fella, you ought to have known that. Seriously.

"Dead Jedi, Republic transports, even before I arrived at this factory I've faced squads of openly Republic-affiliated troops. Why in the galaxy do I need your _confession_?" she sneered the last word and looked as though she might like to stab him again out of sheer ill humor.

"Because…" Cheketta answered, glaring back at her, " _you_ know the truth. But the rest of the galaxy doesn't. And they'll take _my_ word over _yours_."

I turned at the sound of feet, found Imperial commandos pouring in. I fell back. "Don't interrupt her—she's in a killing mood." It was the one thing these bucket-heads would listen to, even from an alien: _Sith in a killing mood._

"Let the Balmorrans and the noncombatants leave. Treat the Republic soldiers fairly, as prisoners of war… help them, and I'll tell everyone we violated the Treaty," Cheketta concluded. It also sounded like he was trying to sound noble in defeat. If he was trying… it didn't work.

"But Grand Marshal," the Boss said silkily in mock sympathy, "there is _no war here_. Remember? The Empire and Republic have been at peace the last decade."

His expression was almost comical.

"No war means no prisoners of war. Just dissidents and terrorists. The Treaty of Coruscant doesn't protect _them_. Unless," she took a knee near him, "you mean to tell me your mission here was to reignite hostilities with the Empire… on a formal scale?" Then, almost sweetly, " _Are_ you declaring war, Grand Marshal? Because if the Treaty of Coruscant is no more… then there's no protection for prisoners of war anyway."

Cheketta looked absolutely sick. The Boss seemed to have siphoned off most of her bad mood as she squeezed the guy by his metaphorical balls. "Damn it! That's everything you could want!"

"Want? I can have your piddly little confession or the _hundreds_ of Resistance fighters and weapons engineers; I don't even know how many Jedi and their little apprentices are here. They'll tell me everything I want to know… and a good deal more. And offer confessions too, I expect, if they're asked for them."

"This won't last forever," Cheketta hissed. "Your Empire won't last, I swear!"

"Waste your breath as you like; you're not longer in a position to affect change. I said I would leave you alive, Cheketta," the Boss purred. "I want you to hear the Senate scramble to disavow you and trip over themselves to pacify the Empire. I want you to see exactly how badly you've failed your men. I want you to hear and see everything that comes with ignominious defeat… _knowing_ that if I hadn't taken you like a fox in a trap I would have been in a more merciful mood and spared you _all_ of it."

Huh. You know… when she puts it like that maybe he should hope Darth Lachris isn't feeling as creative. He certainly turned pasty as the Boss spoke. It really did look like part of him died there; the light just kind of sucked out of his eyes as the full implications hit him.

The Boss got to her feet, addressing the troopers imperiously. "His wound isn't fatal, but it does need to be treated. I expect him to reach Darth Lachris alive. Whether he stays that way once in her hands is up to her. Vette, there's more fighting." With that, the Boss turned on her heel and strode out in search of the real reason we were here.

I was just glad her mood seemed less vindictive, like she wanted to go into her confrontation with Rylon with a clear head and a clean slate.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: For the duration of Vette's story it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Vette's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

 **Balmorra, Part XIII**

We found Rylon's men bunkered down between us and a kind of command hub. They were pretty entrenched too, and looked like they meant business. I didn't miss that just before the Boss walked into frame the cameras suddenly… malfunctioned. So as far as anyone who came upon the aftermath was concerned, it was just another stage in the assault on the Balmorran Arms Factory.

What that meant with regards to the Boss' mission, though… I couldn't quite imagine this Rylon fella giving up so easily. I mean, good grief. Surely a spy's got as many backup plans as a Sith for the day they're labeled expendable. I glanced at the Boss' back as she, lightsaber blazing, padded into the room, her weight carefully balanced in case she needed to move quickly.

Then again, she's always like that.

"Sir, we've got company," one of the troopers announced into his holocom. "Two females—one's Sith."

The trooper grimaced at the reply, but a second later cued a holo of, I guess, Commander Rylon. He looked older than I thought he'd be, almost haggard, weathered, exhausted.

But he was still here.

" _Sith, I know why you've come. Be aware, these are the finest troops I've commanded in all my decades of duty._ " He almost sounded… resigned. My stomach squirmed uneasily, wondering if he was switching sides for real or if he was simply passing the Boss a friendly warning.

"Then I suppose we'll see how they stack up against a Sith," the Boss answered casually.

" _Captain Eligyn, engage at will and hold the line. I'm coming with reinforcements. Rylon out._ " The holo cut out.

The captain grinned lopsidedly at the Boss. "You're about to see what we're made of, Sith."

"Blood, flesh and bone, I suppose," came the disinterested answer.

The next thing they knew BAM! She was in their faces. Two were dead before anyone realized what had happened. I got two more scrambling away from her in hopes of room to maneuver. When she sounds disinterested like that, it means she's ready to jump into action. Most people don't know that.

They pushed us, I'll give them that. Well, they pushed _me_ because a few realized they were no match for the Boss—I don't get why so many people, non-Force sensitives, think they're a match for a Sith—and figured they should move on to the one providing cover fire.

That's the thing about the Boss: she expects people to be able to take care of themselves when her back is turned. I got a little singed, got clipped with a bolt, but nothing that would cause serious trouble. She'd be upset if I wasn't ready for the next mission, whatever that might be.

The last Republic trooper hit the ground with a heavy thud of finality. My skin prickled uncomfortably, wondering just how much more running after people we could do in one day and what would happen if additional Imperial troops showed up to 'help.'

"Ah, there you are," the Boss announced.

I looked over my shoulder to see Rylon ambling toward her, looking quite calm and composed… without reinforcements. "It's unfortunate they were on the wrong side," Rylon observed, pausing to look at the scattered bodies of his unit. "These were excellent soldiers and exceptional men."

"Quinn's admiration was not misplaced. But Sith are Sith and these were not." It wasn't an insult, to my surprise—just a cold, hard fact. That a Sith even bothered noticing that, against a normal opponent these guys would be pretty good, said something about the Boss.

I'm not entirely sure _what_ it says, but it says something.

Rylon studied the corpses, his haggard faced looking even more weathered than before. "It was difficult betraying them. You can't fight and bleed alongside a man without forming a bond… but their sacrifice ensures the Empire's cause is advanced."

He's… really going to just walk into this execution, isn't he? I felt queasy at the thought. I mean, he's so calm about it. Composed. Accepting. He's just gonna let her slice him up? And for what? Some nasty, creepy Darth with a puppet master complex?

I found myself grimacing. It seemed wrong to me that the one person here who _should_ be putting up a real fight didn't seem to be doing so.

Rylon chuckled. When I looked up, wondering what he had to laugh about, I found him observing me. "Today was inevitable. I knew Lord Baras would eventually have to eliminate me. But I'm proud to have been of service."

"I'm honored to be the one to kill you," the Boss responded with every appearance of courtesy, as though she took this very seriously and meant to treat it with due reverence. This wasn't some guy hiding in a bunker with bodyguards and feet from rescue; this was an Imperial who had waited patiently for her, knowing what she was there to do. A guy facing death with the quiet assurance of someone who was prepared to make the biggest sacrifice a guy could.

I still didn't like it.

"Before I meet my end, there's something I must know," Rylon appealed.

"Of course. If I can answer you, I certainly shall."

Rylon paused, then closed his eyes as if he knew the answer. "My son. I know you were the one who killed him."

Crap subject. Almost literally.

"Why, Commander?" she actually sounded appalled—and a little disgusted. "Why put the boy in that position?"

"Out of love or weakness," the Commander answered heavily. "Everyone has a flaw or a chink, Sith. He was mine. That sums it up, I suppose—he was the only thing that was truly _mine_."

The Boss' gravity disappeared for a moment as she grimaced. You'd never catch her doing something like that.

"Did he face his end well?" Rylon didn't seem quite so sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Better if I spare you the details. His death was quick and clean. It was the least I could do," the Boss answered simply.

Well… _technically_ that wasn't a lie. I mean, she did snuff him pretty quick once she set about doing it.

' _It's why I've let you speak. I was hoping to tell him you died bravely.'_

"I feared as much," Rylon sighed. "Thank you, for being delicate."

"Your service deserves those delicacies and courtesies that can be afforded to you," the Boss returned serenely.

By now, the whole thing just felt surreal. He wasn't even trying to draw things out, just making sure all his loose ends were neatly clipped and worked in.

"Vette, go stand by the door, if you please."

I obeyed, glad to get away from the whole mess.

"When they find my corpse there must be evidence of a valiant struggle." I thought he might be talking a little louder than necessary for my benefit. "So I will not hold back, I will fight you as though you are my mortal enemy."

"As well you should. I'll spare you the indignity of decapitation. And I'll make this quick." It was the best she could do—not that the Boss usually does 'slow' but she is fond of decapitations. No one comes back from one of those.

"Thank you. And tell Lord Baras it has been an honor."

She wouldn't. I knew she wouldn't because the ugly old Darth wouldn't care as long as his spy couldn't be ferreted out. She wasn't going to waste a noble sentiment on an ingrate's ears. Ear-holes. Whatever.

It didn't take long to finish… and I'd had time to wonder if maybe it wasn't the worst way for Rylon to go. He died with the men he respected. They hadn't been on the same side, but he hadn't long survived his own betrayal of them. He died fighting the Sith that killed him and, to his credit, he did his best.

"Such a slimy piece of business—" the Boss' assessment was halted by her holocom going off. "Yes?"

It was Quinn, and my stomach did another flip-flop.

"Lieutenant, what's wrong?" her voice held an edge of unease that made my stomach go from doing flip-flops to wobbling like a drunk Hutt.

" _My lord,_ _I heard your entire conversation with Commander Rylon. I had the signal isolated and handled it in the communications suite—operational security has not been compromised._ " He delivered this quickly before Her Lordship's suspicious streak could kick in.

"You heard." It was both an answer and a question. Her expression went grim. I could almost see the sparks in her brain firing.

" _It appears the Jedi Investigator had Commander Rylon bugged and I have her bugged—that was how I was able to listen in. My lord, I heard what she heard, which means she now knows everything._ "

"As do you."

" _Yes._ " He knew what that meant too, given what he knew about Darth Creepy. He was too aware that his neck was out and might remain so, even if nothing bad happened in the immediate future. He wasn't asking for help, though… but I don't think he'd go down as meekly as Rylon did. Right now, his being in the know about a top secret project was just a datapoint. It wasn't a problem until it was.

Note to self: don't play chicken with this guy.

It struck me, suddenly, that Quinn and the Boss seemed oddly similar. It was in their tone as they traded information and observations, a sort of rigid formality both held up as a shield, behind which each stood calculating his or her situation—as well as that of the other.

It was clear the Boss didn't like the idea of adding Quinn's corpse to the altar of operational prudence. I don't like the guy, but Darth Creepy's killed enough people today. Doesn't matter whether he used the Boss to do it—I blame him.

"If this investigator gets away we are going to have difficulties," the Boss announced.

" _Yes, my lord. I am systematically blocking her avenues of escape and communication, herding that Republic scum to her only hope_."

"Sobrik Spaceport. Can I outrun her?"

" _If you hurry via speeder. I am, of course, having my men hamper her at every available opportunity. And I assume a Sith's ship has stricter than necessary protocols to negotiate before it can be stolen."_

"Good. I shall be there presently."

Which means skipping out on Lachris' congratulations. The Sith-lady isn't going to like that.

" _I have her under minute-by-minute surveillance. If anything changes, I shall alert you immediately. End briefing._ "

The Boss cut the call and started off at a jog, her expression dark. I guess it's possible to be too circumspect—no good keeping the secret like she has if this Jedi gets away. I didn't want to think what would happen if the investigator _did_ get away, or get a signal off-planet.

Here's hoping Quinn's as good as the Boss seems to think.

 **Balmorra, Part XIV**

We arrived literally seconds after the Jedi got into the _Astral Blight_ 's hangar. It was such a close shave that I had to breathe a silent sigh of relief. As long as she was still planetside, not all was neck-deep in _poodoo_. Darth Creepy wouldn't take escape well and I couldn't help thinking of all the horrible things an angry Sith might do.

After all, I saw what an angry Sith can do. Or heard it, anyway.

Quinn hadn't wasted time while organizing his men. He and they followed the Boss to the hangar, weapons drawn, ready to burst in, catching the Jedi in crossfire if the Boss went down. In fact… from the look of things, he'd been about to kick in the hangar door, weapons drawn, to hit the Jedi with that caught-in-crossfire plan whether the Boss got there or not.

After all, it's his neck out there, too.

"You're too late, Sith," the Jedi announced in a sweet overly-mystical voice that made me and probably a lot of other people grimace.

Got a hint for you, Jedi: it doesn't make you sound enlightened, it just makes you sound stupid.

"I've already broadcast the conversation between you and Commander Rylon to the Jedi Council. Master Karr has his proof."

Someone trying to sound so detached shouldn't be able to sound so smug. More than that, it was clear that the Jedi was thoroughly pleased at being able to thwart the Boss and quite confident she could… how _do_ Jedi deal with Sith? I mean, isn't killing a problem for them?

The Boss' posture tensed.

"Now Master Karr and his Padawan will expose and track down _every_ Sith agent in the galaxy."

"I'll let you enjoy that delusion," the Boss answered calmly, but with a hint of venom. Her eyes gleamed as she glowered at the Jedi.

This… is going to get ugly.

And it got uglier, in my opinion, because Quinn and his men began filing in, utterly silent as if they all had felt on the bottoms of their overly shiny boots.

Their entrance didn't distract the Jedi enough for the Boss to just sail into her with a surprise killing blow. It did make a muscle in her cheek tighten, though. She was outclassed the minute the Boss walked into the room; now she was outclassed _and_ outnumbered.

"Enjoyment is _not_ part of the equation," the Jedi answered in that nauseatingly serene tone. "I have purity of purpose—"

"Whatever does one do with _that_?" the Boss jeered.

The Jedi's expression didn't even twitch, but she looked like a woman doing some quick thinking. "It makes me calm—unlike you."

The Boss chuckled darkly. "Shows what you know, doesn't it?"

"Jeer all you like, it doesn't change the facts: the shortcuts you have taken have left your strength thin. The Dark Side shall fail you, Sith."

Has she paid attention to the Boss' abs? Or arms? Seriously, has she been watching the carnage around here recently? The Boss doesn't really _need_ the Dark Side. Heck, I think she might just be the least Force-reliant Sith I ever heard of. I mean, there's that lunge and that jump but… no lightning, no persuasions, nothing you'd expect from a Sith. If this is 'thin power,' I don't want to know what strong is. That the Boss doesn't put all her eggs in one basket is just smart.

Or is the Jedi just playing for time, hoping to make a scuttle for safety? Because I don't think she knows that this is the Boss' ship and the Boss is picky about her toys.

"Come, Sith. Save yourself. Surrender and the Jedi Council will give you every chance to discover redemption."

…wow. Just… wow. Jedi really are as crazy as I've heard. Nok didn't like them much, either. Now I see why. Sith don't recognize the Jedi Council as authority figures; why in the galaxy would they submit to be judged by them? Hello?

"Come, Jedi. Save yourself. Surrender and I'll intercede with my master so he doesn't plug you into the Ravager. It's a _nasty_ way to go, _trust_ me," the Boss answered, imitating the Jedi's tone and cadence as far as she could.

I shuddered at the comment. I didn't actually have to watch that part, but I heard it from the hall. It didn't sound pleasant. This Jedi is best off forcing the Boss to kill her—because the Boss is going to hand her over to Darth Creepy in hopes of doing some damage control.

It won't help much and the Boss knows that, but what else can she do?

The thought of Darth Creepy mad and mad at us turned my stomach.

The Jedi's expression was implacable, then she shrugged. "I'm not going to kill you Sith, or fight your misguided minions."

This caused a stir among the Imperials which Quinn silenced with one gesture: he snapped his fingers. Dead silence ensued. I glanced up at Quinn who, to my surprise, looked utterly smug… smug and a little fascinated.

I've always kind of wondered why Sith and Jedi like to yak at each other before they fight. I mean, they like to stand there just goading each other knowing neither side will ever give ground or change their minds. You'd think they'd save their breaths. Maybe there's some weird Force thing involved.

…it made me wonder just how Force unreliant the Boss might be… because I don't know beans about the Force as such and maybe I'm wrong. In fact… the Boss is subtle even if she's in-your-face… you know, I think I'm wrong about that Force unreliance thing…

"I won't kill you, Sith," the Jedi repeated, "but I _am_ leaving, so I will have to incapacitate—"

The Boss was on her like black lint on a white shirt. She did it so fast that I was the only one who wasn't surprised. The Jedi managed a Force push against the Boss which slowed her down just enough for the Jedi to fumble her lightsaber free and get it turned on.

The Boss danced back, the blades clashing red against yellow, the energy crackling loudly as the weapons collided. It was clear in seconds that the Boss had more skill; that the Jedi had to watch her hide, which seemed to be all she could really do. Not surprising: the Boss has fought Jedi before. This Jedi made more use of the Force than the other one, but it seemed like a delaying tactic rather than anything meant to stop the Boss from killing her.

I couldn't help but notice that, by this point, Quinn looked as though he'd never seen anything quite so… fascinating… in his life. It was the same look he'd had when Grathan's assassin dropped in. He wasn't the only one, but the fact that he actually showed it said something to me.

And why not? It is pretty cool watching the Boss do her thing.

It was over in a second, the Boss sidestepped, her lightsaber seeming to pass right through the Jedi's weapon before taking the Jedi's arm off at the bicep. Arm and lightsaber hit the ground, to the shock of the Imperials. Logically, you _know_ the Boss had to turn the blade off then turn it back on. The thing is, the Boss is so fast with that move that the blade doesn't turn all the way off before it reignites fully. It looks like it just passes through one object and sinks into the next. Bam. Like magic.

The Jedi gave a sharp, short scream as the blade cut in, then grunted as the Boss pressed her advantage, kicking the Jedi in the back causing the woman to stagger. The Boss dropped low, sweeping the woman's feet out from under her. The Jedi landed heavily on her backside even as the Boss returned to standing as if pulled to her feet. Before the Jedi could even look for where the Boss was, the Boss planted a heavy foot on her chest.

The Jedi shivered where she lay, a combination of fear and probably the shock of losing an arm. Just because a lightsaber cauterizes as it cuts doesn't mean losing a limb doesn't hurt. I've seen the training burns on the Boss' arms. There's no way those things don't hurt when they touch you.

"Your victory… means _nothing_ ," the Jedi panted—partly in pain mostly because the Boss was putting _a lot_ of weight on her chest. "It _changes_ nothing. The proof has been transmitted. My mission was successful… how's yours?"

Now she's just courting death, trusting to a Sith's temper to result in her death rather than being shipped back to Dromund Kaas.

She hasn't got a clue about this Sith. Maybe this Jedi's not the top of her class?

"Actually, my lord, the Jedi's assessment is _quite_ incorrect," Quinn announced dutifully… and not without a hint of self-satisfaction.

"Do tell," the Boss almost purred, some of the tension going out of her posture. The Jedi seemed to pick it up, her expression growing less smug. The Boss indicated with her off-hand lightsaber—now off—for Quinn to come up to her before clipping the extra weapon to her belt. At this point, she only needed the one menacing the Jedi's throat.

He obeyed immediately, by now looking tolerably smug instead of totally smug. "I hate to burst your bubble, Jedi," he paused, then, "no, that's a lie. I'm reveling in it—"

The Boss chuckled darkly at this. It's one of her bad traits: she appreciates people's vindictive streaks and this Jedi definitely gave the Boss quite a scare with that whole transmission to the Jedi Council thing. Anything to rub it in is fair game just now.

"You see, I intercepted your transmission," Quinn continued in an almost consoling tone. "The Jedi know _nothing_. All in all, I would call my lord's mission _quite_ successful—if I might be so bold."

"Quinn, I could _kiss_ you." And she sounded like she meant it, too (which made Quinn tense up, but he didn't move to get away from her, either). She didn't take her attention of the Jedi, though. The Boss isn't going to let the woman pull any cute tricks.

"I'm only doing my job, my lord," Quinn answered modestly. "If you'll recall, I've had her monitored and screened the entire time. There was never any risk at all."

…you know, any other Sith might resent being made to worry, but the Boss just chuckled as if she ought to have known this. But Sith aren't trusting; even if she had known, she wouldn't have relied on his word. She's a do-it-yourselfer.

"Gloat all you like," the Jedi growled, looking crushed and not just by the Boss' boot. "It means nothing. I remain at peace. Master Karr will still defeat you."

"He will fall just as you have fallen," the Boss answered seriously.

"I face my end knowing what is true. So deal the death—"

"I'll hear no more of this foolishness," the Boss snapped, pressing harder on the Jedi's chest until the woman reached up to grab the Boss' ankle as if in hopes of alleviating the pressure crushing the air out of her. "Lieutenant, I take it you have proper facility for holding this… _noble_ person?"

"Absolutely, my lord." Quinn gestured to his men who closed in around the Boss. The Boss leaned down, foot still in place and put her hand over the Jedi's face. A second later, the Jedi let out a startled breath, then went utterly limp.

"She'll be asleep for several hours. I wasn't sure if you had—" Quinn held up a pair of cuffs that looked more elaborate than usual handcuffs. I supposed they had to be for suppressing a Force-user's abilities. "Ah, so you do. Put them on her ankles. That works just as well."

Her instructions were followed and the unconscious Jedi was carried off between two Imperials who looked deeply impressed.

"If I may, my lord?" Quinn asked delicately.

"You most certainly may," the Boss smiled.

"I'm certain you know what you are doing… but sparing the Jedi is a curious choice." Shrewd blue eyes studied her guardedly.

"For a Sith, you mean."

"I said no such thing, my lord."

He didn't have to. His experiences with Sith are limited and I know for a fact the Boss has a low opinion in general of the Sith she's met here—with the possible exception of Darth Lachris—just Sith politics.

"Killing her would be wasteful. Far better to see what she knows. We can always kill her later if Darth Baras can't break her into something useful," the Boss answered.

That's her thing: waste not. You wouldn't know she was rich with that kind of attitude.

"Of course, my lord. What matters is that the threat has been averted." He answered promptly, but it was clear Quinn was chewing this very pragmatic answer over. The taste must have been to his liking.

Suddenly, the Boss' holocom went off.

A split second later, so did Quinn's.

I didn't miss a rusty sort of smile from Quinn before he withdrew.

The Boss gave him her back and they both took their calls. Hers was Darth Lachris, archly wondering where one of the heroes of the hour had disappeared to.

Quinn's guy didn't bother keeping his voice down. " _Lieutenant!_ _Where_ _is General Wallace?_ " Although he sounded angry, the question also sounded like a question of habit.

"I'm afraid he's indisposed, Admiral Ivernus," Quinn answered neutrally, manner and expression totally unobjectionable.

" _Again_ _?"_ Now came the real anger.

"I'm afraid so, Admiral."

" _Pathetic excuse for an officer,"_ Ivernus growled under his breath. I think he means this general and not Quinn. " _Then where is Colonel Sartius?"_

"Colonel Sartius should be in the vicinity of the Balmorran Arms Factory. As you know, Darth Lachris was heading a major operation there. He sought to take advantage of the chaos to deal with a few particularly pernicious dissidents."

The Boss, having finished her call, was listening in while pretending she wasn't.

" _And that idiot Pirrell_?"

"Here in Sobrik, sir." He glanced fleetingly at Her Lordship, who shrugged as if to say she had nothing to do with this.

" _Give me fifteen minutes then tell Pirrell to meet me at the spaceport. Let him think whatever he wants, just have him there._ "

"Of course, Admiral."

The Admiral severed the call, leaving Quinn to exhale slowly, as though hoping that 'that idiot Pirrell' was about to be removed from his list of daily concerns.

"Trouble?" the Boss asked.

"Unlikely, my lord. Merely a rearrangement of the garrison's power structure—these things do happen from time to time." He managed not to sound dismissive, even if it was clear he wasn't prepared to discuss Sobrik's inner working with a Sith if he could help it.

"Which leaves me with one more question," the Boss announced, retrieving the Jedi's lightsaber from where it lay.

"My lord?"

She grinned at him over her shoulder. "Did you enjoy the show?"

He looked almost as caught off-guard by the question as he was the last time she asked.

 **Conclusion**

"So that's how we got stuck with Quinn," Vette concluded. "Showed up the next morning at breakfast and asked to be allowed into her service—Darth Creepy got him off whatever hook he was on and the first thing he wanted to do was join up with us. Course, you know the Boss—she was glad to have him." The Twi'lek grimaced at this. "He's been making life hard ever since."

From what I could tell, there was more to it than a pretty face or simply keeping the Darth's flunky around so she could keep an eye on him. Nothing's ever simple with Her Lordship—at least, not that I've observed. But hearing about Balmorra in such detail told me a lot about her, even if Vette didn't recognize a lot of it.

"What happened with Darth Lachris?" I asked.

"Oh, she threw a big party. I didn't get to go, obviously, but the Boss came back from it in a good mood—and brought me a doggie bag. Course, Lachris wanted the Boss to keep on helping, but the Boss was already leaving on Darth Creepy's orders and I guess Lachris didn't want to cross him. Makes you wonder what kind of clout Darth Creepy really has. He's not on the Dark Council, but you'd think he was the way other Sith defer to him," Vette mused.

I considered this, then shrugged. I suppose it doesn't matter in the immediate timeframe. "Thank you, Vette."

"Not a problem. Guess you'd be interested in the Boss since you'll be learning from her and all." Then, as if she felt she owed it to Her Lordship, "She'll work you hard, but she'll do it for your own good. And she'll _never_ expect more from you than she does from herself."

I had that impression.


	6. Chapter 6

**On the Training of Apprentices**

"Tell me, girl: did they fail to knock into you the most basic of skills or were you too dense to pick them up?" Her Lordship snarled using the Force to wrench my lightsaber out of my hands in spite of my attempts to hold onto it. She threw it across the room where it bounced off the nearest wall, sliding across the floor.

I backed up as she advanced, that one bright red beam of light throwing her features into sharp relief.

"Why do you back away?" she snapped, lip curling. "Do you think I'd kill you here, in my own home?"

I stopped backing up, tensed, rooted by uncertainty. What did she _want_ from me?

Somewhere between the beginning to the morning's combat practice and now, the fear I'd felt of her had begun to war with something else. The Jedi don't shout at their pupils. They don't question their pupils' aptitude or intelligence. They don't browbeat their students.

Her Lordship had done all of those things since we stepped into the cargo bay that doubled as her training room. She shouted. She snarled. She cut into me with snide commentary. Worse still were the _looks_ she shot me.

As desperately as I wanted to please her, to prove myself a _good_ student… I was getting heartily _sick_ of her. She raged and growled but she wouldn't _teach_ me _anything_. She would just repel whatever attacks I came up with, then criticize freely.

My fingernails dug into my palms as I glared at her, trying to reign in my anger. I don't think it was working; I trembled with it from head to foot.

"Have you had enough already? Did they fail to teach you endurance as well as the basic skill?" she demanded coldly.

Something snapped. I wrenched out with the Force, pushing against her slow progress towards me, sending her stumbling back. My lightsaber jumped into my hands and I brought the yellow beam arcing towards her. She repelled it, jumping back nimbly to avoid the other end as it swung out at her. She caught me with two neat, successive strikes as she passed around me, the hot burn of her lightsaber scorching my wrists which caused me to drop the weapon with a yelp. Angry red welts appeared where the blade touched me.

"Good! _Much_ better," Her Lordship said; shockingly, she sounded pleased. When I looked at her, I found her smiling as she turned off her lightsaber, dabbing at her brow with one wrist. All the anger and sarcasm were gone from her face and manner, but resentment still burned in me. Why should she be so happy all of a sudden, after saying such awful things to me?

"Be glad I'm not my father," she said, almost gently, then motioned me to come kneel across from her.

I settled, following her example when she put her lightsaber in the space between us. Adrenaline still dumped into my blood, leaving me shaky and resentful.

"My father is regarded as a master swordsman. It is from him that I learned my craft," Her Lordship began. "The point of combat training is not just to make you skilled with a weapon. It is to toughen your mind against the taunts and pleadings of those you face. It is to teach you to direct your anger when it bubbles to the surface, so not an ounce of it is lost. It is to teach you to rely on the Force without having to think actively about it—to trust, as I see you are not inclined to do, in the invisible. The ephemeral."

I frowned at her, eyeing the powerful muscles in her bared arms, the evidence in her shoulders of someone to whom combat was more than a way of life. My own arms and shoulders felt weak, noodle-like even. Much as I hated to admit it, she _was_ right to criticize my endurance.

Nomen Karr wasn't big on combat practice. Too busy. There was no point, I thought at the time, in practicing alone.

"I won't lie: I hate my father as much as I love him. See?" she held out her arms so I could see the many, many old burn marks upon them. "A socialite never shows her scars, and his teachings forced me to wear gloves or long sleeves to hide the damage. It was very uncomfortable, often putting me at odds with the current fashion—and, thus, my mother's teachings."

I looked at the burns on my wrists. It surprised me when she insisted on calibrating my lightsaber's beam to something acceptable for training—it would hurt to touch it but wouldn't do any real damage. She'd then done the same for her own and showed me so I could see that she really was not going to truly harm me despite the use of a live weapon.

I hadn't expected such a precaution with the Sith. According to the Jedi, they cleave into one another with live weapons as soon as they start combat training.

"I hate him and love him. It was upon the training floor that I could give full vent to that hatred, so it did not become toxic. It was because I heard such awful things from someone about whom I cared—and who cared about me after his own fashion—that I could ignore the nasty things said by others later on. It was upon that training floor that I learned how to use my anger rather than let its power boil off and be wasted. It was upon that training floor, for he never stepped down his skill on my behalf, that I learned to rely on the Force, because that was the one trump card I was allowed."

I tried to imagine her father and failed. It sounded like a painful way to learn, but as she explained it I could see the wisdom of it. When I touched her aura, I found it tinged with love, sadness and no small amount of resentment. But the resentment was habitual.

"It sounds cruel."

"It was," she agreed. "But necessary. Because it wouldn't do for me—who might someday become Sith—to be too fond of my father, a lord in that order. He did not want to hold me back or be my weakness. It's why he never made me his apprentice. How could he, when masters and apprentices inevitably find themselves in opposition?"

I wanted to tell her she would never have to worry about that from me, but held it back. I didn't want her to think less of me for being so sentimental. Still, I promised myself that she would never, _never_ have cause to doubt me. I might be Sith, but I was _her_ Sith. I owed her everything; it seems only right to give that everything to her to use as she sees fit.

"If I may ask, what is it you require of me to make this training work?" She likes intelligent questions and intelligent people. I'd already observed this about her.

"An excellent question, and one you arrived at far quicker than I did," she smiled.

Of course, she was little more than an infant when her father started training her. I saw it with the Jedi: the youngest ones don't ask questions. They obey… or try to.

"I want you to take every ounce of vitriol you can muster and throw it at me. If I vex you, shout if you must. This is not supposed to be a silent exercise. Battle is noisy, and it helps if you accustom yourself to the fact. When we are next on Dromund Kaas, I shall take you into the training room my father and I used and give you a taste of what that was like. Or, perhaps, he may decide to see how badly I'm training you." Her mouth twisted into a thin squiggle at the thought.

I bit my lip at the thought. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you, my lord."

"You won't," she answered firmly, her aura pulsing with certainty. "And you mustn't be afraid of it or you will surely manage to do it. Merely be brave in the face of the onslaught, be vocal when he shouts at you, and make him work for his victory. He will _always_ find fault with me."

"…and if I tire him out, you can take the second round while he fights with a handicap," I noted hesitantly.

Her grin was totally approving. "I knew you were a clever girl. I will always be harsh with you on the training floor. But know that I do it with your best interests in mind. It is important, too, that you vent your own frustration whether with me or with others while on the combat floor. Suppressing your emotions is a Jedi trick and leaves them to ferment unseen. Out of sight out of mind is a _most_ unwise philosophy."

"As with Karr," I interjected, remembering the sickening miasma he'd had locked away where no one could see it. Resentment of him for so many reasons burned in my guts like acid.

"Yes. Don't let ill feeling become toxic; rather, put it to good use. Believe me," she touched my shoulder, "I can handle anything you dish out. I am content being a target of convenience while on the training floor. Be brave, Jaesa."

I think she knew exactly how hard I would find that. It wasn't 'be brave in the face of danger' or 'be brave in the face of your psychotic master.' It was 'be brave and shake off the chains.' It was 'be brave and embrace the idea of a new you… then make it happen.'

I suspected she was being so much more gentle with me than her father was with her. If I end up half the Sith she is, I'll be overjoyed. "I'd like to try again," I said firmly.

"We'll try again tomorrow. Meanwhile, your basic techniques require serious attention. We'll begin with the basics." She took her lightsaber and pushed herself to her feet. "This will be amiable instruction."

I nodded, hopping a bit where I stood to loosen my muscles. I expected her to work me over, and was not disappointed. It seemed that all the work we'd done before our talk was just to get my muscles warmed up and loosened up.

"When we're next on Dromund Kaas, we'll need to see to your wardrobe," she grimaced, frowning at my neutral-toned clothes. "Not to worry, we'll get it squared away."

I looked at her as she took stance and instructed me to mimic it. She wore a neutral-toned top with a mock turtleneck, but which left her arms and belly exposed, with a long slate-grey pair of trousers that were almost skirt-like. It was easy to see how she moved the muscles of her stomach and arms, but the legs were harder.

There seemed to be something… some kind of importance… attached to the attire. Some hidden lesson. If there was, I didn't get it.

 **On Dromund Kaas**

Dromund Kaas was Her Lordship's homeworld and drastically different from Alderaan or Tython. It was colder than one might expect and rained heavily. Fat droplets slap-slapped like thrown pebbles against the thick glass of the spaceport's big windows. There was a smell in the air that could only be described as mingling _surfeit of rainwater_ and _green growing things_ ; it was a smell I'd never encountered anywhere else.

"That's why the foliage is so huge: the rain beats it thin and wide." I wasn't sure if Her Lordship was joking or not. Maybe she was joking in all seriousness.

The clusters of civilization seemed in constant contention with jungles, like limpets on rocks, refusing to be dislodged by the disorder of nature. It was not nearly as crowded a world as Coruscant, thus it wasn't as polluted. In fact, I was shocked at how low the population seemed in comparison to Corsucant. They still used housing towers, but there was vastly more wilderness than city.

The spaceport and Kaas City had heavy straight-lines and duracrete construction that screamed 'military.' Given the jungles outside, this did not surprise me. Heavy plastiglass windows resembled dark eyes in the solid walls while red Imperial banners hung soppily everywhere—though the color didn't run, as one might expect. They broke up all the grey of duracrete and weather, which was a nice reprieve.

I'd never seen a gundark before, but as we took the speeder to Kaas City from the spaceport, I finally got a good look at one. Apparently the wildlife was as big as the plantlife and I began to understand why Imperials were the way they were. Living on Dromund Kaas is to live in contention with the environment in addition to anything else. They bring that attitude with them when they go off-world.

I also discovered it wasn't so bad being chilled and soaked: there was no wind to speak of, so the biggest discomfort was being partly dry and partly wet. Once I was all wet (or mostly wet) it really wasn't so bad, just chilly.

There were Mandalorians, too. I had to keep reminding myself not to feel intimidated, especially since those at the spaceport didn't seem to pay any attention to Her Lordship and me. I thought there seemed to be a terribly high number of them leaving the spaceport of Kaas City, but Her Lordship indicated that Mandalorians were almost a law unto themselves and congregated or dispersed according to no known or discernable schedule.

Mandalorians are known as Jedi hunters, and it wasn't until Her Lordship and I disembarked our speeder that I dared to broach the topic. "Mandalorians hunt Jedi. Don't the Sith worry?"

Her Lordship considered for a moment before answering. "Mandalorians tend to pick fights with their equals or their overmatch, unless they're being paid. Jedi provide good sport, I suppose, but Sith often hold the purse strings. Sith also have a nasty habit of obliging a fight like that if only to keep others from getting clever ideas. I wouldn't worry overmuch about them, Jaesa. Be aware and be cautious, as you would with anyone else, but don't worry overmuch."

The way she spoke made them sound almost like soldiers: they ran over the Cathar homeworld because it was just business. In the Republic they're painted as little more than intergalactic bullies, full stop. Hearing it from the side they stood closest to, there was no implication of personal animosity against the Cathar. However, with the Jedi… well. I won't lie, when the topic came up, I always wondered why the Jedi didn't just give the Mandalorians what they wanted: a good fight, and when the Mandalorians got tired of losing they'd look somewhere else for their need to fight.

I nodded at this and let the subject drop. I suppose I have a lot of unlearning and relearning to do when it comes to the Empire and its denizens. Perspective is so much a part of things. "May I ask where we're going?" I piped up as Her Lordship appropriated one of the public transit vehicles.

We were both immediately blasted with warm, moving air which would, given time, dry us out fairly efficiently.

"We need to have a word with my master," she answered, "we need to start having you properly equipped and outfitted, then we shall go to my parents' home. I always stay there when I'm on-planet and, as my apprentice, it is expected that you should accompany me."

I regarded my clothes—she'd insisted I borrow one of her tunics, just until we could get something better suited to me, so I wouldn't draw attention walking around dressed like a Jedi. The silk garment was of such a fine weave that I recognized it at once as killik silk—Gesselle had a gown or two of the same stuff.

It clung to me, still damp, and overlarge, making me aware of just how slender my body was, unhoned, untrained, weak. I gritted my teeth, hands clenching into fists in my lap.

The thing about Dromund Kaas that was familiar was the fact that housing was oriented in vertical towers, the roof level of which made up the various mostly-mercantile districts. Her Lordship was quick to point out—perhaps too quick—the various points of interest from the theater (that was apparently running a favored production), to the glassed-in conservatory (a show of defiance to the Dromund Kaas weather and climate), and the Nexus Room (which sounded like an upscale cantina).

Finally, we arrived at the Citadel, which was where Imperial Intelligence (she explained this before giving it its colloquial name, Imperial Affairs or IA), the Mandalorians, and the Sith maintained headquarters. It was a mixed bag of Darths and Dark Lords who occupied the segment of the Citadel kept for their use, and it was from here that Darth Baras conducted his affairs.

"Would you like to join me? This meeting should be short," Her Lordship offered.

I considered as we came to a halt outside a certain office. My first inclination was 'No! Thank you!', but it was the knee-jerk reaction of a child and a Jedi. "Where you go, so go I, my lord," I answered instead… but I pulled my mind closed as best I could, just to make sure I didn't leak anything I shouldn't.

"Very well. I encourage you to guard your thoughts and respect the privacy of his. He's not a man to be trifled with."

She did not need to tell me 'do not speak unless spoken to' but she did seem pleased that I'd anticipated her instruction to keep my thoughts to myself.

 **On Darth Baras**

I approached my study of Her Lordship's master as if I'd never seen him before in my life. As I only saw him the once, and that via holo while my head was reeling, this was not difficult.

He was short, shorter than Her Lordship's, but _very_ stout indeed (only a little of which was due to his robes). His elaborate mask hid his whole face, even the glitter of his eyes. He spoke in a low voice that seemed to come out of his chest rather than his throat. Learning to judge by Her Lordship's standards, he was a fat, old man and had he not been possessed of the Force in strength he would not have been a Darth at his age.

I did not try to regard him with my special gift; not only would it be rude, it would reflect badly on Her Lordship, easily misinterpreted as 'spying on her behalf' if it was picked up upon. I'd had confidence in my gift's discretion… up until I stood looking at that Darth, understanding the threat he represented—or would come to represent—to my master. I didn't want to start the conflict early, especially not on accident.

Baras had surprisingly little to say to Her Lordship, except to tell her he would let her know when he next required her but that she surely wouldn't be bored since she had me to see to.

His treatment of me—which I answered with bland politeness—was condescending, as though he didn't know how to speak to a young woman. Since he said nothing of particular interest, I said nothing particularly interesting back. I simply presented my 'good handmaiden' face, kept my eyes downcast and my thoughts to myself, allowing my apprehension at being here to mingle with my confidence in Her Lordship.

Frankly, I hoped I'd boggled him or been dismissed as too bland and uninteresting for study.

I could not call him stupid though, this old Darth. Although condescending to me, I recognized the scalpels in the words he exchanged with Her Lordship. He was a Sith of the traditional school, the kind who used an apprentice or adherent until he or she broke before elevating the next one in queue.

Wasteful. Thankfully, conversation with Her Lordship intimated that she maintained an awareness of this feature of her master. So much the better.

 **On the Aristocracy**

When my master said she was of the aristocracy, and that her family maintained an estate outside Kaas City, my imaginings were in terms of what passed as an estate on Alderaan: a large, airy building with vast sprawling grounds, where wealth was displayed in quantity versus quality. Ostentatious, in other words, although aesthetically pleasing in some regards.

The grounds were probably large, but mostly eaten up by jungle. I'd forgotten, during the time we'd spent surrounded by the very sturdy Kaas City, how pernicious the plantlife of Dromund Kaas was. The grounds of the Balanchine Estate seemed to be carved meticulously out of the jungle; the boundaries of the house's immediate grounds were delineated by wrought-metal fences. That none of the jungle hung past them spoke of an army of gardeners dedicated to keeping the jungle where it belonged: outside the reclaimed land.

A lake with a pavilion in the center—reached by several rail-less little walkways—glittered like silver tinsel in bright white lantern-light. Despite the rain, it was clear some sort of gathering was going on out there. The lawns were dotted with carefully tended trees and a few bushes strong enough to withstand the Dromund Kaas rains which, in turn, sheltered smaller flowering plants at their feet.

The house itself was large, of the sturdy concrete style Kaas City boasted. The difference was that the house had many more windows, big ones. As we drew closer, I found that any lateral straight line had smooth-polished fragments, like granite, set into the duracrete to add an elegant band texture and shine. The vertical straight lines had another shade of smooth-sheared granite. I thought it was a rather clever used of the color grey on a world where the light afforded by the cloud cover often leached color from everything.

From the garage, we took a passage that led up into the big house to deposit us in the front foyer. The light inside was bright and clear, but not painful on the eyes. The duracrete vanished in the house's interior: everything was covered in painted plaster or wallpaper, or simply paneled in pale golden wood. The result was that, as heavy and imposing as the house was outside, it looked bigger and airier on the inside, warm, golden and inviting.

Flowers in exquisite porcelain or glass vases hunkered in the foyer on little ornamental tables, bringing splashes of vibrant color into the airiness. Given the environment, I could imagine such flowers being a luxury item: they were far too delicate to last long outside without a great deal of protection and care.

At that moment, a Rattataki in a charcoal-colored suit appeared, welcoming Her Lordship. If he found my presence odd or worthy of interest, he didn't show it. He merely greeted me as 'Ms. Willsaam' once Her Lordship introduced me, taking my jacket with the same brisk efficiency as he had Her Lordship's wrap.

From him, we learned that it was Her Lordship's mother with the lake party, but her father and a selection of his friends were in his study. "Playing Gambit, I assume," Her Lordship said.

Well, she _said_ it, but it was clearly in line with a question, for the Rattataki answered, "Just so, my lady."

"Please have Jaesa's things transferred from my ship to the suite across from mine and see that my Twi'lek is likewise collected. Leave a card with this house's contact information on the holoterminal so Captain Quinn doesn't think we've been swallowed alive by the jungle."

"Of course, my lady. And welcome home."

"Thank you." Some of the stiff, brisk, formality lowered for a moment in those two words. It occurred to me, given the Rattataki's apparent age, that he probably knew Her Lordship when she was a young child.

With that, Her Lordship took me by the arm and pulled me along with her.

Gently sloping ramps led up from the foyer to the house proper.

The dark rectangles set into the walls, like paintings or windows, turned out to be plastiglass panes. Behind these were display cases, each containing a treasure of some kind and a card describing what it was. Sometimes it was a family heirloom, in which case only a tiny placard was needed. Sometimes, it was an object with history, in which case the entire back of the recess was covered with a plaque giving details.

It was nothing like the houses of the Alde family, where they bray and bleat about the historical significances of the pieces in their collections (which contain _a lot_ of broken pottery or crumbled items of whose import or value I've always very much doubted). This was a deliberate selection of items, beginning with some ancient Moff's dueling blasters (highly ornate and, unless I was much mistaken, fully functional) to a necklace (a fantastic confection of pearls, opals, and diamonds) lit carefully to show off the perfection of the jewels that either belonged to someone important or was made by someone important.

If first impressions are lasting impressions, then I felt overwhelmed by the time I entered the chamber to which the ramps leaving the front foyer led.

"So. You've come back, have you?" Although masculine, the grim not-quite-hostile voice had a low, soft quality reminiscent of Her Lordship.

I looked up to find a man who could only be Lord Augustine Renault standing in the second-floor gallery. He was not dressed in black, but in what was probably a very fashionable suit of dark blue with a sort of sleeveless robe of the same color over it to underline his Sith connection. He wore his lightsaber conspicuously at his hip. He seemed ageless at this distance: his hair was red like his daughter's, as was the carefully cropped mustache/beard he wore. He showed no sign of going to seed. At this distance, he looked more like Her Lordship's older brother than her father.

Beside him stood a grey-haired, clean-shaven Imperial who called "Hello, love," as soon as he gave Lord Augustine a weary 'do you really have to do this?' look which Lord Augustine ignored.

I ignored the fact that it was just plain weird to hear Her Lordship called 'love' like that, so casually, without embarrassment or hesitation.

"My godfather," Her Lordship breathed, "Moff Thorne." Then, louder, "Hello, Uncle Tim. I am glad to see you doing well."

Which explains Her Lordship's goodwill to the military. She muffled it, but through our bond I could feel a deeply affectionate attachment to the old Moff.

"Hello, _Dahdee_ ," Her Lordship smirked, eyes glittering like orange flinty chips.

Lord Augustine's mouth twisted as he glowered at his daughter. Clearly, he would have preferred professionalism rather than familiarity. "Don't you have something to be subjugating? That is your function, is it not? Brute force when Baras needs a battering ram?" He pitched the words at her like a training droid pitches laser bolts.

"It's so _lovely_ to come home and hear how badly informed you are. Please, do continue," Her Lordship answered in an elegant mix of courtesy and taunting.

He didn't have the opportunity, for a tall woman in a glittering white dress and wearing a duke's ransom in magnificent opals, came sailing in at that moment. "Have I missed the posturing, Tim?" she asked, her clear voice carrying easily.

"I think they're just about done, Maggie," the Moff answered indulgently.

"Oh, thank _goodness_." She rolled her eyes without shame at this 'Sith silliness.'

I supposed this must be Magdalena Renault _nee_ Balanchine. She was a curvy woman with richly blond hair, large green eyes, and translucently perfect skin. Although lined, she was not one whom age ravaged, but upon whom maturity settled. There was a lot of Her Lordship in Lady Magdalena's bearing and carriage: they had the same shape of eyes, the same catlike curve of mouth when neither smiling nor frowning, something in the texture and thickness of their hair.

Whatever Lord Augustine really felt, it was clear that Magdalena was glad to see her daughter. In fact, she sailed up to Her Lordship and gave her a big hug and kissed both her cheeks. Well, pressed her cheeks to those of her daughter: both of them were wearing lipstick and neither, apparently, wanted to walk around wearing the other's.

It was strange to look at them together: black and white, daughter and mother, Sith and non-Sensitive. The only thing needed to make them look like antitheses of one another would be for Her Lordship's hair to be dark.

"Hello, Mother," Her Lordship responded reservedly, setting her mother back at arms' length. "This is my apprentice, Jaesa Willsaam. Jaesa, this is my mother, Lady Magdalena Renault."

I inclined my head, unsure what degree of courtesy was required. Her Lordship indicated she was nobility, but never specified what rank therein. "My lady."

Magdalena cocked her head, considering me, her green eyes sweeping me up and down. "You're a pretty little bit of a thing," she observed, apparently approving. "I hope you enjoy your stay here. You _are_ staying, aren't you?" The question slashed like a knife at Her Lordship.

"I wouldn't wish to deprive you of the opportunity to show off the newest Dark Lord of the Sith," Her Lordship answered indulgently. "But this is a short visit—only long enough to see Jaesa properly accoutered."

I did feel a bit uncomfortable at the idea of 'accoutered.' Jedi have everything issued to them, but the Order (I guess) pays for it. I didn't see the Sith Order seeing to the equipment of apprentices. That meant it came out of Her Lordship's pocket and when she said _accoutered_ I was reminded forcibly of her insistences that the apprentice reflects upon the master.

"Oh, _dahling_!" Magdalena pouted. "That's really too selfish of you."

Lord Augustine's eyebrows rose, but apparently Her Lordship was correct in assuming her mother would want to know and do something with the information. "Magdalena, don't—"

Magdalena cast him a _look_ , one of those speaking looks that married people share. I wasn't sure what it said, but Lord Augustine cancelled whatever he was going to say with a prim press of his lips to the amusement of Moff Thorne, who patted Lord Augustine on the shoulder and mumbled something probably good-natured.

Her Lordship put off her mother's plan to take us both outside and share the good news—Her Lordship made a chain of excuses as to why she wouldn't do it—before ascending to the gallery. She and her father exchanged a short, wordless something before he swung back into whatever room her arrival had summoned him from. His friends—if I could call them that—assembled within the room greeted his return immediately.

"Heard about Balmorra, love. Good show, altogether." Moff Thorne stayed long enough to kiss his goddaughter's forehead before rejoining her father at play.

"Thank goodness that's over," Her Lordship sighed as she led the way deeper into the house.

"Is it always like that?"

"Oh, yes. Can't let anyone get the idea that _Dahdee_ is overly fond of me. Someone might smell a weakness," she answered. "He's proud. If he wasn't, he'd have let me know it. _Believe_ me."

I tried not to judge Sith family policy, but found myself thinking it was sad that she and her father were so at odds.

"Ah, don't feel badly, Jaesa. I am a living Sith. That alone is evidence of his love for me. Else he'd have trained me poorly and I would be dead."

It was still sad.

-J-

Author's Note: For those who can't guess, I'm treating Gambit as the Star Wars equivalent of Risk.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Suite**

"This is your room," Her Lordship announced, opening the door. "And it shall remain so until your relationship with me terminates. Whatever you do not care to keep aboard ship may be left here with safety."

I didn't ask what Her Lordship's parents would think about this sudden addition to their home.

"Now, my maid Shyla will bring you a set of practice clothes and we shall go down to the training room first thing." With that, Her Lordship withdrew, closing the elegantly carved double doors behind her. For a long moment I studied the polished wood, a twisting design of flowers and vines carved with painstaking detail.

The suite was comprised of four rooms (or, rather, three and a sort of large closet): a small refresher, the office/entertaining space in which I stood, and a bedroom. I supposed the large closet might be a room for a personal servant. The whole place seemed not somewhere often in use, but it was clean and orderly.

The wood floors were mostly covered in richly colored rugs and, rather than painted plaster, the walls sported a soft ivory paper with satiny ivory scrollwork on it. I had to wonder at it: for being unused, it struck me as remarkably feminine and delicate. No heavy dark furniture or dramatic bold colors. Lots of delicate ivory, blush pink, and golden champagne tones.

The bed was ridiculously huge for one person, canopied and curtained. An armoire of pale wood stood at attention on one side, and facing it stood a vanity with an arrangement of paints and brushes arranged with military precision, one army on one side and one on the other. Coming closer, I realized that one set was the heavy greasepaint-type stuff Her Lordship used, the other was the more sedate kind worn during her non-working hours.

All the furniture had an antique feel, the elegance of fine fabric and real wood from a time when things should be beautiful as well as functional. I ran a hand along the grain of the vanity's wooden surface, took in the frothing waves and serpentine sea dragons supporting the mirror. Tiny stones, the same color as the wood, winked out of the creatures' eyes.

A knock on the door to my suite startled me, and I racked my knee on the underside of the vanity's thin middle drawer. "Yes?!" I called, trying not to let the pain show as I got up.

From the other side of the door, "Young Miss? My lady requires me to—"

I opened the door to find a rather plain-looking Twi'lek of mustard yellow bearing a pile of clothes.

"—deliver these to you. She hopes they will fit. I'm to assist you if needed—she says the first time wearing them can be odd."

After noting the all the ties on the trousers, I let her in. Again, signs of rigid discipline. All the evidences of it, ingrained as it was into the most mundane tasks, made me comfortable. The Jedi were big into discipline but they rarely ingrained it into day to day actions—getting dressed in the morning was an exception.

Unlike Her Lordship's abbreviated halter top, the undyed linen shirt given to me was a loose thing, like a tunic, that slipped over my head. Given the size, I suspected it spent many years in a drawer or bin somewhere before being taken out and laundered for my use. The same seemed true of the trousers, as I didn't trip over the hems, Her Lordship being taller than I by several inches.

This, along with the paint, suggested she'd contacted the household ahead of time and made preparations. When I looked at the nearest rug, I noted that the table on it did not remotely match the indentations in the nap of the material. Therefore, I knew some of the furniture had been changed out in preparation for my habitation of the room.

"If you'll follow me, Young Miss," the Twi'lek asked, before ushering me out of the suite—which she closed up behind me—and leading me down a long hall.

 **The Training Room**

"You're getting soft old man!"

"And you're sloppy as you ever were—how is it you're not dead?"

"No thanks for that to you."

I entered the training room and stopped dead. Thanks to my time aboard the _Astral Blight_ , I recognized the same training exercise Her Lordship engaged in with me. My awe had nothing to do with the vitriol and cutting remarks going back and forth between the combatants. It had everything to do with the combatants themselves.

Both Her Lordship and Lord Augustine wore undyed shirts, slate-blue trousers and both were barefooted. Her Lordship wielded her two lightsabers, but Lord Augustine wielded only the one—and with that one kept Her Lordship handily at bay.

They were both covered in sweat, the moisture turning their hair several shades darker and little droplets flying with every jerk or pivot. Shiny pink burns ornamented their forearms—while Her Lordship's shoulder sported a burn mark, and a similar mark adorned one of Lord Augustine's thighs. Breath came in pants and cheeks were flushed in that unpleasant blotchiness true redheads with their prison pallor obtain.

Lord Augustine had to be nearing sixty, but the life of an aristocrat had not softened his physique. Every time his blade struck Her Lordship's, one could see the impact rattle through her. I'd never seen Her Lordship hard-pressed, but it was clear that her father was still the master and she remained the student.

I sat down on the floor to watch: however fast they moved I could still follow them. The Force _flowed_ in a way I only rarely saw it move with the Jedi. It wasn't conscious effort but the product of an innate understanding of the way it aided one in combat. It had become habitual, not something either needed to think about. It had become instinct, and I understood what Her Lordship meant when she said I would need to learn to rely on the immaterial, the ephemeral.

It showed in the height of a jump and the softness of a landing (or, on occasion, the force of it); it showed in the way Her Lordship and Lord Augustine were just a little too crisp, too precise in their fine movements—momentum should have required more time, more space—the result was that it looked as though gravity did not pull on them the way it pulled on others. It showed in the awareness of their opponent.

I suddenly understood the idea of relying on the Force. The Jedi preach that the Force flows, that it moves through them. Supposedly, Sith jerk it around, treat it like something to be subjugated.

Both were wrong… or maybe just inaccurate in their expressions (not that I'd really heard any of the Sith Force-usage philosophy from an actual Sith, yet).

When I was on Alderaan, I saw a particular dancer. She had a lovely costume, but what caught my attention was the scarf in her hands. It was a light, floaty material that seemed to hang in the air, and it moved at her gentlest tug, the slightest puff of air. Through tiny motions, she could move and manipulate it with apparently little effort and to great effect.

 _That_ was how Her Lordship and Lord Augustine approached the Force. They caught it and tugged it, letting it flow towards the tug. They snapped it and twirled it, letting it move around them but only at their direction. There was no brute force application or passive permissiveness. There was simply a light material and a firm, experienced handler.

They were dancers and the Force was their scarf. It was a warrior's tool and an artist's implement. It required direction, but momentum was allowed to follow as it would. It was another mark that Her Lordship (as imprinted by her teacher) believed in control over all things in her vicinity.

I understood the impression of the Captain that I had: that he enjoyed watching Her Lordship in combat. On Alderaan there are great winds that sometimes twist into funnels on the flatlands. Watching Her Lordship was not unlike watching one of those—fascinating at a distance but terrifying up close, impersonal and highly destructive.

The fight ended with Lord Augustine performing the same move Her Lordship used on me: the flick off and on of his lightsaber to pass through Her Lordship's. The beam rested a whisper away from leaving a livid mark upon her neck. "And here I gave you an easy bout," he said darkly, lip curling in distaste.

Her Lordship, whose back I could see and no more, said nothing; she merely waited, still as a statue.

Lord Augustine backed away, turning off his lightsaber as he did so. He gave me pointed look, then withdrew altogether.

"Take off your slippers before you come onto the training floor," Her Lordship directed, her breathing heavy, her voice tight with upset. I could feel it, now that I wasn't distracted by the spectacle—the frustration, the anger. Some part of her was still a daughter who craved her father's approval in this, his preferred craft. The resentment over not being able to obtain it, however, was like the uncomfortable itchy sandpapery feeling of a low-grade sunburn. It wouldn't ruin her day, but it was unpleasant while it lasted.

It wouldn't last as long if she had a project t to devote herself to.

I obeyed, remembering their feet, half-hidden by the hems of trousers, the way toes splayed freely, the way heels touched the ground only occasionally.

The training room was a large, rectangular room, two stories high with a gallery above. The training space itself was delineated in black paint along the smooth wooden floors. Discreetly in corners and studded along the ceiling were what seemed to be speakers and lights—currently inert.

Her Lordship turned to face me, critical eyes running up and down my form. "Good. Regard the training floor proper—we have room to move. As you increase in skill, new components may be added. Flashing lights. Loud or sporadic sounds. All the distractions one might find in a combat situation. For now though, we won't worry about that…" Then, in an undertone, "Unless _he's_ feeling playful." She shook herself. "We'll begin with a warm-up. Take your stance and remember: the robes give you an advantage. I'll let you figure out what it is."

The advantage is that it's harder to see what the muscles of calves and thighs are doing. I'm being trained to watch for subtle tells one might miss if one wasn't accustomed to looking for them.

 **On The Sith Code**

Meditation has always been a painful thing for me. My mind would wander, attention catching on any little distracting detail which always brought down a lecture which always agitated my mind which inevitably brought on more lectures.

The Jedi Code was something else that gave me problems: I had too many questions. Usually I was quieted with a reminder that I was really too old for this training, that my mind had grown rigid and I couldn't be expected to soak it up like a tree's roots do the rain blah blah blah.

The Sith Code was far more blunt, decisively up-front. It was upon this that I was supposed to meditate. It was less integral to a Sith to _memorize_ it so much as to _internalize_ it, until it became second nature to fall back on it, until it colored all one's dealings without conscious thought.

Her Lordship took us out to the pavilion on the pond in the pre-dawn morning, turning off the lights that would have made it bright as a sunlit day. As it turned out, this was a very accurate phrase: the ceiling had a central lamp that emulated sunlight, both in warmth and in intensity.

This morning, a gentle but persistent drizzle beat down, pushing away the mist that clung stubbornly to the water. The smells of wet, green and cool filled my nostrils, tantalized my skin, raising gooseflesh on it.

Without preamble, Her Lordship took a centering breath, then bent over to touch her toes.

Given what I knew of her, I wasn't expected to imitate her but I was certainly welcome to do so. Encouraged, even.

So I bent over and tried. I wasn't as flexible as she was, so I made a mental note to improve that skill. She spent a few more minutes limbering up with me doing my best to imitate her. The flexibility made sense: not only does it allow greater range of motion, she's less likely to suffer strained or pulled muscles. I'll bet she's even been trained how to fall without getting hurt.

"The best way to think is when one moves," she announced. "Or so it is for me. As you like." With that, she slid into a series of slow movements, fluid, as if she was moving underwater, her breathing even, each deep inhale or exhale accentuating the move she made. It was hard to tell if it was exercise or some kind of dance.

"Isn't water a… a rather…" I shifted. "A rather _peaceable_ thing to visualize?" The Jedi liked water—serene, tranquil streams, great gentle oceans, that sort of thing.

"Do you think so?" she asked.

I didn't answer. The question was open, not reproving, but I felt uneasy.

"Water can drown or crush a man if there's enough—or simply sap all the warmth out of him. It can quench fire while all fire can do to water is turn it into steam which scalds the unwary. It wears away earth and anything else given time. Mix it with earth and you get things like mudslides and quicksand. A storm can sink a ship; a large enough wave can level a city."

The movements were so slow they weren't hard to follow, and after an interval they repeated. By the third iteration, I felt my mind starting to slip, body automatically copying what my eyes saw as the rest of my attention became loose enough to turn inward.

"No, Jaesa. One respects fire because it can burn you but water requires even more care: too little of it and you die. Too much of it and you die. Cold water can soothe you on a hot day, or kill you through hypothermia. Hot water can warm you on a cold day, but can boil you like a lobster. And if you get in its way… it can maim, cripple, or kill. So you see, water is an _exceptional_ metaphor for the Force: it can maim, cripple, kill. And it, in itself, does not care. Only the will of the wielder matters."

"I see." I took a deep breath, and Her Lordship let me turn my attention inward. What she said of water is totally true. I find it odd that the Jedi and the Sith both use water as a metaphor… though their philosophies overlook—or, at least, the Jedi do—certain aspects. The Jedi forget that water is a highly destructive force, as Her Lordship pointed out. Even in its most tranquil forms it effects change. You can drown in a lake if you're careless. A brook cuts its way into the ground, deepening and broadening over time.

And while sapients have learned to dam water, to make energy with it, to tame it… none has ever truly _shackled_ the power of water. It breaks away and when it does…

It's a _very_ good metaphor and an excellent visualization technique.

It's important to understand the application of the Sith Code, not just memorize it. The Jedi were that way too, but they kept quoting it at us—at their students. I don't know if it's just that Her Lordship doesn't need to beat me over the head with it or if the Sith focus more on application than on lip service.

 _Peace is a lie, there is only passion._

Like a stream cutting out its bed, wearing away the banks. All _looks_ calm, but change still occurs.

As someone who studied with the Jedi, this makes sense. The harder you try to deny emotions, enthusiasm, anything that makes you feel _alive_ —to attain a sense of 'peace'—the harder you have to work and the less success one has. Peace has sometimes been defined as stagnation; nothing struggles, nothing grows. Still water grows algae and other gross things. Peace is always shattered by those who prefer conflict. I've seen Jedi felled by Sith, all their peace and serenity shattered by the force brought against them…

…although I can fairly recognize that some Sith fall to Jedi. It just seems the Sith have more success in dealing with their opposing faction.

 _Through passion I gain strength._

A swollen river affects things around it: it floods, it contributes to landslides, it can drown the unwary or the unlucky.

Strength has to come from somewhere, and one's emotions are a powerful reservoir. Not just physical strength. Mental strength, emotional strength, anything that can be shifted so as not to overbalance. Yet there's more to it: passion unchecked is wasted, through discipline, through forcing something easily boiled off under control creates an absence of peace—and the force in contention grows stronger even as the force restraining it strengthens. Tension, and strength through tension, like exercising muscles until they become toned and firm.

 _Through strength, power_.

Quite apart from drowning someone, enough water can crush a man. The more of it, the more dangerous it gets, threat piling onto threat. I found myself painfully aware of all the moisture in the air, of the way it clung to my growing-warm skin while the flesh itself remained chill to the touch.

Play one's aptitudes in pursuit of advancement. Resources accumulated are used to their best effect, permitting domination, manipulation, or simple flattening of an opponent. Power isn't restricted to brute force—Her Lordship exemplifies it, as does her master. Sometimes it's better to wound an enemy and leave him alive; sometimes it's better to simply drag someone into lock step and keep them there.

 _Through power, victory._

Except water has no guiding will. I, however, do. And the Force, like any aqueous medium, can be made to serve; actual function simply depends on its kind.

Very self-explanatory, though I notice that many of the words in the Code are not exactly literal—although they can be and often are taken that way. They serve as catch-all things, encompassing big ideas into something easy to rattle off. The drawback is for those who fail to understand the varieties of nuance that can be applied.

Victory, for instance depends wholly on the context of the contention in question. Saving me from the wreck that was my life was undoubtedly a victory for Her Lordship. Just as equally a victory is when she sways an individual to her viewpoint, even those predisposed to it. Thus, none of these ideas refer to any particular magnitude.

That's something: nothing in the Code refers to _magnitude_.

 _Through victory my chains are broken._

We go through life wrapped in a series of chains. The end goal is to sever as many as possible, suffering only those that needs must… or which are strategic enough to be broken only at a certain time and in a certain way. Like when Her Lordship eventually unshackles herself from her master.

 _The Force shall set me free._

And the Force is the greatest tool we have for doing all of these things, the fulcrum, the pry bar, the mallet, the scalpel. Useable in a million ways if the mind is creative… and limited only by imagination, by what the mind expects.

My mind began to empty, like water seeping out of cupped hands, leaving me comfortably certain I'd made progress in understanding the Sith way. More progress in however long I'd been at this moving meditation than I'd had with all my time with the Jedi.

So much of it seemed common sense and self-explanatory… until one really looked, realizing what whole worlds of meaning were present within the words.

 **A Lesson in Perception**

"I have lately begun to wonder if, perhaps, I have made the error of neglecting the most basic instruction for you," Her Lordship declared, frowning.

"My lord?" I cringed inwardly, wondering what basic instruction she meant. I almost didn't have time to finish the thought before something in the Force moved—like an underwater creature vanishing from view—and something struck me on the shoulder before dropping to the floor.

When I looked from the paper weight she'd pulled from her desk and gently knocked me with, I found her expression grim, particularly rumpled. Finally, she began shaking her head. "These Jedi," she sneered softly. "Jaesa… I'm not entirely certain how to ask this." Her mouth thinned in thought, as if trying to phrase something so ingrained for her that she never thought about it unless reminded about it. "Has anyone taught you to… to utilize your perceptions of the Force as an actual _sense_ or have you been eking by when things pop, shudder, or otherwise draw your attention?"

I felt my cheeks burning. "I… I've _heard_ it's supposed to be like that," I admitted. "But… well."

"But no one ever instructed you about refining that sense," she finished, not unkindly.

I shook my head, noticing she called it a 'sense' and not a 'power.' Those are two very different things.

"It's like any other muscle and must be worked regularly. We who make use of the Force are allowed greater insight and ability than most. The Force can compensate for ruined eyes, can warn of dangers when ears are of no help. In many ways, it is a sense all its own, not 'a power.'" She considered me—as I gleefully thought 'wow, I nailed it!'—then beckoned me to come with her.

I followed, relieved that she radiated reassurance that she was not upset with me, merely derisive of people who would neglect such a basic lesson with such an unorthodox student. In fairness… the Jedi did have little clusters of students instead of just one at a time. They didn't have as much time…

…but a nasty little voice in the back of my mind said Karr had exclusive rein of me and he never taught me much. He dumped my skinny butt with Yonlach for that.

Her Lordship brought us outside, to the pond pavilion where we often meditated—or where I did, with Her Lordship sometimes joining me.

"Sit down." With that, she knelt, arranging her clothes neatly around her. She pondered, probably fishing for the oldest lessons in her mind. "If you do not rely on your sense of the Force, you are totally blind and practically deaf. You sense only the compressions people would interpret as 'sound' rather than hearing the sound itself. The Force moves as if we were all submerged in a vast sea; it possesses its own eddies and currents. Creatures moving within it cause shivers; deaths and births cause tremors. Great events send out shockwaves. It is like a spider's web, a multitude of threads each connecting in a state of semi-controlled chaos. Tug a strand and jiggle someone elsewhere; or, twitch a strand and _find_ something elsewhere. This does not refer to true clairvoyance, but to the glint of light that helps you locate a lost earring, or the chance sound or shadow that helps you locate a person who wishes to remain hidden. Close your eyes."

I obeyed, shivering slightly in the cold air.

"Consider where we are. Fix us in your mind—you. Me. The pavilion. The water around us. Narrow your perceptions to the pavilion alone."

It was easier said than done.

"It's a process," Her Lordship continued unhurriedly. "Empty your mind of all sounds except the lap of water and my voice. Empty your mind of the scent of rainwater or the pond. Take in the smell of the pavilion's wood, your own perfume. Let your mind empty like cupped hands that cannot hold water. Draining. Draining. Draining… empty."

I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Focusing on small details helped me take less notice of the ones I was supposed to be ignoring. The floor was smooth beneath my knees, the light of the pavilion shone through my eyelids until Her Lordship turned it off. Then it was all cool darkness.

I focused on myself, imagined what we must look like to someone standing on the edge of the pavilion, my own small hunched form, Her Lordship all fire and darkness.

I thought, at first, I might have begun falling to sleep, as Her Lordship continued to narrate. For a moment, I thought I'd opened my eyes, saw my own folded knees, hands resting lightly upon them… except that I knew I hadn't actually done it. And there was something beyond sight… like a distortion in the air around me. I thought I could see it but knew I wasn't actually doing so. It was a perception _like_ sight.

I promptly lost it, eyes popping open.

Her Lordship stopped mid-word, waiting.

"Something just… happened…" I said slowly, nervously.

"Oh?"

"Yes…" I knew she expected me to elaborate—how could she help if I didn't? "It was… my eyes were closed but I thought I saw myself as if they weren't… and there was something else." I licked my lips. I've _heard_ about this, of course, but never actually _experienced_ it.

"Training oneself to take in perceptions of the Force, the way it moves around everyone and everything takes practice. Right now, your mind is rigid, reliant on your gift and your physical senses. We must find ways to loosen it, to open your mind to accepting information from a new source." She paused, then regarded me. "What did you sense in the Chamber of Visions on Tatooine?"

I blinked, then considered, thinking back. "It was wet, too humid for a desert world. It made my skin crawl."

"Wet," she mused.

I narrowed my eyes as she silently thought over my answer. "It wasn't really wet, was it?"

"No, Jaesa. It wasn't. Rather, the experiences of those who came before hung thickly upon the air, coloring the Force with ideas of water and cleansing. Their journeys—and now ours—linger there, tiny little echoes, grains of sand in the glass of eternity. It was this accumulation of the Force that allowed visions to manifest. Had you known to look, you would have noticed that—when your vision appeared—the rest of the cavern grew 'dryer,' the blanket of the Force crumpling up so that you might interact with it in a more tangible fashion."

I'd… almost forgotten Tatooine, how my own reflection tried to drown me, told me I wouldn't be able to stand up to a Dark Side emissary.

My vision… told me about _her_. It made it sound like we would fight… and we did… but the vision made it sound like the emissary was going to kill me. Well… something in me isn't there anymore, so… ugh. It's all so metaphysical. It makes my head hurt.

Her Lordship chuckled. "I want you to practice every night before sleeping. Reach out. Feel the way the Force moves. Or search for people within the house until you become aware of them—I would recommend leaving _dahdee_ alone," Her Lordship mused. "When you are tired and your mind is supple, let yourself drift; feel the currents of the Force as they pick you up and carry you. Eventually, it will no longer be an exercise, but something like breathing—you do it because part of you needs to do it, to the point that you don't have to think about it except under extraordinary circumstances. In the meantime…" She got to her feet, beckoning me to rise as well.

She said nothing more, but led us back to the house, making me wonder just how long we'd actually been out here. The position of the grey light that passed for daytime had changed appreciably since we came out.

Her Lordship led me to the training room, the both of us removing our socks and slippers. She disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with two lengths of cloth and a bag of small balls. She draped one length of silk over my head like a veil, then tied the other like a blindfold. "Now. I'm going to toss you a ball. I want you to catch it."

I wanted to protest that I couldn't do it if I couldn't see… but I'd seen students on Tython doing something like this with lightsabers and little droids.

"This may be frustrating, but I encourage you to work through it. Let the frustration fuel your desire to _see_. Focus is essential."

A ball bounced painlessly off my shoulder as she spoke.

"At this point, the lesson has become a compound one," Her Lordship continued, her bare feet silent on the floor as her voice moved around. When she stopped speaking, it was with the unsaid suggestion that she wasn't going to give me more clues as to where the ball would come from than she could help—I would just have to sense her through the Force, use that faculty to pinpoint where she was so I had a clue form where the ball would come.

This wasn't massaging my mind into a state of openness and receptiveness. This required sharpened focus rather than a loosening of it.

 **On The Presentation of Apprentices**

"Now, I do like that one," Her Lordship noted from her chair as I postured before a large array of freestanding mirrors brought in from other rooms by the servants. "You're a little young for risqué, I think, but it's hardly the garb of a prudish sort. More importantly, what do _you_ think?"

I was _so_ tired of that question.

I regarded the gown, high in the neck, low in the back, the skirt transitioning from an opaque black bodice to layer after layer of tissue-thin material at the hem. "It doesn't show too much of my legs?" They were barely a shadow below the knee and invisible above, but I'd never worn anything quite so glamorous.

"Hardly. I don't know, Sonjia. What about that one you did for me, the green one with the little glitters in it? Something to break up that flat black. She shouldn't look as if she's dressed for a funeral."

"It could certainly be done, my lord."

Four days since arriving on Dromund Kaas found me standing in my suite at the Balanchine-Renault estate, surrounded by clothes and muslin mockups. On the first day, Sonjia—a Zabrak of unusually delicate form—came down to the estate with a large pad of paper, a book of fabrics, and several half-finished garments and mockups.

Now, I stood rather like a doll while trying to feel neither too excited nor more than humble. Without prices on them, I had trouble valuing the garments—though Her Lordship's practiced eye rejected two of them without asking my opinion. I sensed a joke between Sonjia and Her Lordship, but remained ignorant of it.

"What do you think, Jaesa?" Her Lordship asked, motioning that I should turn around for her. "The lines are flattering—especially since you don't have my rather… stout… figure."

"You're not _stout_!" I protested reflexively, looking away from my reflection to where she sat, comfortably ensconced in a chair brought from her own suite.

Her Lordship laughed. "Thank you, but by Society's standards I'm almost a brute," she got to her feet and joined me, regarding herself in the mirror, turning to examine herself from various angles. "Fortunately, as my mother is fond of saying, people will excuse almost anything if you are charming and powerful."

She's not stout. Powerfully built, yes, but not stout. I know stout, living amongst Alderaan's soft nobility. It's a nice way of saying 'fat.' "I do rather like this dress," I admitted, fingering the long skirts.

She looked away from her reflection and studied me. "And the color? Black suits you but perhaps you would prefer something else? Mother believes young women should avoid black, no matter how becoming it is." She pursed her lips at this, as if her inclinations were if the 'on the one hand, but on the other…' sort.

"Black does suit the young miss," Sonjia put in. "It highlights her skin to perfection—she has such a pearly complexion."

Do I?

"She does; you don't see such a clear olivine like this very often. But I imagine a deep purple or perhaps a garnet would do just as well," Her Lordship mused. "It's completely up to you, Jaesa, and what you would be comfortable with."

"I like the black, if it's all the same," I answered, partly since it's ready, partly since I didn't think flashy colors would do much for my familiarity with being unremarked or going unnoticed.

"Then black it is. And the suggested embellishment?"

"I leave that to you, my lord. I'm… not well-versed in such things." Not for myself, at least.

"Very well. You are in good, capable hands. While I see to this, go put on your working clothes." With that, she immediately began issuing instructions to Sonjia, who quickly drew out her pad of paper, making sketches and notes, which Her Lordship overlooked impassively. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, I'll give her that!

I disappeared behind the changing screen, a lovely thing of delicate materials I couldn't name with a nighttime landscape painted on one side. The armor—mostly soft leather, which was why the seamstress handled it—lay in a folded heap; Sonjia visited almost every day to ensure its fit, as well as to ensure Her Lordship and I were both satisfied with the result.

I liked it. It mimicked the style of Her Lordship's garments: a long half-robe over leggings (with reinforced knees) and boots, and an abbreviated vest. I'd also opted for a hood—if Her Lordship sensed the addition came from not being comfortable in public and a desire to be able to hide in the shadows of the garment, she said nothing. Sturdy gloves and shoulder guards—of the sort one rarely sees on Jedi—completed the costume. I did eye elbow guards such as Her Lordship wears but eschewed them. I don't know why Her Lordship bothers: she doesn't _get_ rubbed into the duracrete.

If the Jedi garb is an exercise in discipline to put on, no less is the costume of a working Sith. The leggings had laces at one hip to better accommodate my curves. The boots, likewise, required lacing up. The half robe required being secured carefully so it wouldn't shift or come loose during a fight. The vest required a rewrapping my breastband, small as I was, to a degree far more snug than I was used to before I could get it on and get it fastened (thankfully, it fastened with hooks and loops rather than laces). No wiggle or jiggle here, that's for sure.

I could see why Her Lordship turned the simple act of dressing every morning into a regimen of discipline: it was almost a penance to struggle into my new clothes. Since they weren't broken in, everything felt strange and stiff. Restrictive.

I buckled my belt and hung my lightsaber from it, feeling… strange… in a way I couldn't quite describe.

"Ah, you look almost Sith," Her Lordship declared, motioning me to turn around for her. I did so, feeling self-conscious. "You'll have to let me make you up later. You can't go into battle with such a worried expression—people will think you're no good."

I found myself smiling hesitantly: her tone suggested it was their mistake but one I needn't deal with because people were stupid. Intimidation is a big part of her philosophy, to shake someone's confidence before they actually start needing it. All the evidence says it works for her.

"Now, come with me to the practice room and we'll let you get used to moving around in those," Her Lordship got to her feet. "Sonjia, unless you require Jaesa's presence for the completion of these garments, have the day clothes finished first. The rest can be finished _in absentia._ "

"Very good, my lord," Sonjia answered, gathering her things before beginning to put the gowns and mockups into some order.

Her Lordship did not wait to see her on her way, merely beckoned me to follow her to the training room.

 **On Stealth and Anger**

"Master, your indulgence please?" I'd been holding it in for several days, but found I couldn't hold it in any longer. Her Lordship's time had become something in high demand, leaving her time to practice with me in the mornings… and little else. It had been almost a whole day that I'd been left at Her Lordship's family home while she attended to business of her own; previously. It was so unusual for her to be so absent that my nerves began to jangle.

"Yes?" she looked up from the desk at which she worked. "Come in, Jaesa." She motioned me to enter the room. She'd left the door open, as if implying she was available, but I still felt uneasy. I didn't want to be a bother… or maybe I was conditioned to feel that way by the Jedi. Or maybe I wasn't.

Her quarters in her family home were elegant in shades of green and blue—like ornamental peacocks on Alderaan. Beaten copper vases held fresh white flowers that added a trace of sweetness to the air. The furniture's golden wood gleamed softly. As nice as my rooms were, they were still the rooms of a guest in that they had very few personal articles; Her Lordship's room was full of pretty things—statuary, paintings, antiques. I would have loved to take a little time to look at them all—or even just some of them.

"What's troubling you?" she asked when I hesitated. She set aside her project and got to her feet, regarding me critically, as though she could divine what was wrong without being told.

I shifted. "I… we haven't spoken for some time, master. Are you upset with me?" The words brought a blush to my cheeks, leaving me feeling like a small, clingy child. I hadn't had much luck with my various 'homework' exercises, however hard I tried. Part of me was afraid she might find me a substandard pupil and just… give up on me.

She'd made it clear my special gift was nothing to her, just a toy for me to play with. While I appreciated the license such a viewpoint afforded… well. If my gift meant so little it certainly wasn't an incentive for her to keep me, as it had been for Karr.

"Upset with you?" she narrowed her eyes, considering me. "Jaesa, I am not difficult to find—remark the open door. If you need to speak with me, by all means, do so."

I frowned at her. "Then may I tell you it angers me to be ignored?" Despite my efforts, the tone didn't come out at all pleasantly. More like 'petulantly.'

Her mouth quirked on one side. "You may even elaborate on it, should you wish. Come, sit with me." She walked over to a couch and settled onto it.

I dropped on the other end, slouching morosely before reminding myself of good posture. It was set for someone on the tall side, with firm cushions and ornamental throw pillows (one of which Her Lordship dislodged and set on the floor before settling).

"The nobles on Alderaan treated me like I wasn't even there. First because I was just a servant, then because they knew I could see through all their pomp and distortion." My fingernails bit into my hands, remembering those old, unhappy days. The only difference in remembering now versus in the past was that I didn't have to, or try to, suppress the anger that came with it. "I wanted to expose it all, bring their nonsense to a halt. Show the world what they really were." How petty and shallow, haw utterly _common_ they were.

"I understand your anger. I've never been on a world filled with greater fools. They think they play the games of intrigue and ambition but in reality they are fools with poor intestinal fortitude." She snorted. "Quinn called it: the only reason their blood is blue is because it doesn't get enough oxygen."

I giggled at this. "Yes."

"So, why didn't you?"

I looked back into my lap. "I don't know. No, I know," I corrected myself. "I was naïve. Stupid. And the lady I served seemed genuine when she advised me against it." Gesselle made it sound like she was protecting me from fallout… but no doubt she got something out of knowing what I knew. Why wouldn't she use it? "Of course… she ended up using me for her own ambitions. Deep down I… _hated_ my life, but I swallowed those feelings."

"And now you are free," Her Lordship said soothingly. "But perhaps there is something in all this you may wish to consider."

"My lord?" I cocked my head as she adjusted her position on the couch to something more comfortable, less formal.

"I have already begun to teach you that part of the Sith way is to tap into the strength of your emotions—even if I advocate control over them so that none of their power and potency is lost. But I should like to point out that it is not a bad thing to go unnoticed. If it angers you so, then you may discover yourself suited to ambushes rather than my own style of kicking in doors or shattering windows."

I cocked my head, considering. "Until my combat abilities improve?"

She tilted her head, which I notice she does instead of simply shrugging as most people would. "You may find that stealth and guile suit you better. I have noticed that you already instinctively shrink away from things that frighten you, make yourself smaller, harder to notice. It would be foolish not to consider a skill you've been cultivating—knowingly or unknowingly."

I thought some more, then nodded. "And the anger… I can unleash it to make the first attack when I stop going unnoticed that much more potent. Because I would have to keep that anger hidden so as not to give myself away, it would be more potent when I do let it out. Like a bomb exploding."

" _Dahdee_ did not train me for stealth, Jaesa, something I have had cause to regret. You are young enough to learn but old enough to decide what to learn. I recommend experimenting with your skills, find what works for you. A duplicate of myself is not nearly as useful as a self-aware apprentice who considers her strengths and shortcomings, exploiting the one while minimizing the other."

Self-aware. I have the feeling that's more of a task than it sounds. I can confess it to myself… I'm not entirely sure who or what I am anymore. "I'm still thinking like a Jedi," I remarked critically. "They tell you what they want you to be and you conform."

"That is why they suffer so many of the same intrinsic flaws. Darth Baras has nothing for us to do at present, which means I may dedicate myself more fully to your training than I had hoped to be able to do—and I think I have the bulk of things here taken care of. This means venturing off-world, beginning with a trip to Korriban. It will be good for you to experience it as you have already experienced, I think, that little rock the Jedi call home."

I perked up with interest.

"Darth Baras has provided me a waiver so that I needn't send you to the Academy itself. However, you will undergo the kinds of trials any graduate would undergo. I have no doubt that Baras will seek to test you from time to time." Then, with grim firmness, "Be wary around him, Jaesa."

"What will I do on Korriban?" She hardly needed to warn me about her master.

"A little of this, a little of that," she answered blandly. "Mostly to take in the air, so to speak, and see what sort of strengths and weaknesses the traditionalist mindsets inspire. It may be a place to practice hiding, if you feel yourself less than able to deal with the occasionally murderous acolytes. I will tell you everything you need to know before we touch down, there. Not to worry."

"May I engage you in combat practice for a while? The day's gotten on and—"

"Has it indeed?" she blinked, then cast around for the nearest chrono. "Ah, no wonder you came looking for me. Yes, absolutely. We should have just enough time to squeeze in a few bouts and get mopped up before supper. Go, get dressed. I shall meet you in the training room."


	8. Chapter 8

**A Tale: Quinn**

I sat down across from the Captain, who arched his eyebrows as he looked up from his book. "Jaesa," he greeted in that so-polite tone that meant, in the grand scheme of things, absolutely nothing. For such a by-the-books, rules-and-discipline loving man, he was second only to Her Lordship in the arena of empty pleasantries and unassailable courtesy—all the while thinking (sometimes doing) _exactly_ what he wished. From what Vette told me of the Balmorra campaign, it was a show run by the Captain (then-Lieutenant) without any of his superiors realizing who had the situation under control.

In short, the man had lip service mastered while feeling no particular discomfort in saying one thing and doing something else—usually what was best in the broad scope of things.

Nevertheless, I resisted frowning at the familiarity, aware that I had no right to demand more formality. I was, after all, merely an apprentice and we were aboard ship. Also, Her Lordship did not demand formality: she received it like a willingly-given tribute.

Would I ever achieve such a state?

"Captain. Tell me about Her Lordship." I did manage to hedge it as a request. Her Lordship rarely ever gives the Captain actual orders and, even phrased in the imperative, they usually seem to be understood as being requests or simple instructions.

The Captain considered me, then shrugged. "Did you have anything particular in mind?" he asked.

"Nothing in particular, no. I merely wish to hear about her exploits before I joined her. Vette spoke of Balmorra, and Her Lordship's adventures there." And in more than six words, if you please. If he tries that, I'll say as much.

The Captain (with a twinge of relief only a Force sensitive would catch) studied me for a long few moments, his dark blue eyes taking in my face, feature at a time. I had the impression that retelling Balmorra without compromising or incriminating himself would be difficult. "Very well. Perhaps Her Lordship's Alderaan campaign, as it involves your old mistress."

It also involved my parents. I didn't want to hear how Master Yonlach died, since it was protracted and painful. I felt less squeamish about my parents—Her Lordship promised it was as quick and painless as she could make it. They weren't Jedi. They were simply civilians caught in the crossfire, deserving of no particular malice or cruelty—or effort, though she didn't actually say that.

I appreciated the sentiment, though it hurts that it happened.

"Now you have my undivided attention," I answered, grinning wolfishly to hide the pain my parents' deaths still caused. I'd always wondered how Gesselle died—the one time I approached the subject, Her Lordship indicated regret that Gesselle was dead. She might even have shared the story had her attention not been called away.

The Captain half closed his eyes, as if deciding how he wanted to word his story.

 **Alderaan, Part I**

Author's note: Okay, being brave with this POV! For the duration of Quinn's story it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Quinn's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

Duke Kendoh was a foul little man, shriveled, wizened. Not, as I thought about it, unlike Moff Broysc—a little man with more clout and power than a fair galaxy would permit—in his monkeyish twitchy movements and spreading-oil smile. It was clear that having so many Sith at his whim decreased his sense of danger when he had one angry with him—though Her Lordship did not seem particularly angry.

Yet. Not particularly angry _yet_. But the day's still young. I may be biased.

It was clear to anyone with eyes that the Duke had no idea what kind of tigers guarded his office. One did not need to be Force sensitive to recognize the signs of strain, of bitten-back discontent, the men evidenced. All this suggested they'd been at this posting for some time, long enough for the veneer of cool superiority most Sith present to begin wearing thin even in the company of a new, unknown member of their Order.

There was a tight control in Her Lordship's posture, a sort of slinky, prowling grace that exposed itself in her movements, making the bones and muscles in her shoulders and that part of her back which was visible shift fascinatingly beneath the flesh. She wasn't happy, thus she compounded her discontent into something useful.

"Duke Kendoh," she began, polite, measured, but with a distinct distaste for a noble less competent than herself. I'm afraid that describes half the nobility on any world right there, if my research is correct. "I am Darth Baras' representative."

She might as well have said 'I am your executioner' but that's simply her way. She puts on a strong front, sees who takes the charge or caves and tries to run.

"What?" Kendoh frowned petulantly, looking her up and down, apparently finding her wanting in physical attractions. "You're not on my schedule. I don't appreciate being interrupted…especially by red-headed snippets."

Her Lordship began to smile. I couldn't actually see the curve of her mouth, but I could tell by the way she tilted her head. It was the cold thing she reserved especially for fools she had to be careful with, the smile that masked homicidal intent, and planning how to carry out that homicide—just in case opportunity ever came up.

The Sith around the room shifted like so many ravens, watching Her Lordship intently with avid yellow and orange eyes.

Her Lordship ignored them completely, as if they were so many artistic fixtures on the wall. The Duke had as much as one target ever got of her attention.

I placed myself, Her Lordship, the Duke, his attendants, and the furniture, in my mind, planning how I would have to move if anything, _anything_ , occurred. Preparedness in the aide ensures the safety of the superior. The small space would make a fight difficult, like a sack of eels. No one would have elbow room, and the Duke was as likely to be trampled as not.

I would rather—though I could hardly admit it—underestimate Her Lordship and apologize later than overestimate her and apologize while knitting her back together.

My eyes dropped to the scars visible at her hip and waist, the nasty marks of very large claws. They weren't very old. A few months at most. Not for the first time, I wondered about them. The white lines showed they hadn't been stitched closed to heal, the flesh had gaped. This suggested injury sustained on Korriban. That she survived that place with that kind of extensive energy said something.

I comforted myself with the idea that Her Lordship would understand this mindset and let it be without taking offense. She was marvelously practical as Sith went. She would almost have to be, being Darth Baras' favored apprentice. Otherwise, so my impressions ran, the man would burn through her rather quickly.

Kendoh strode over to his desk, arrogantly dropping into his chair, resting his arms on it as though he was sitting on a throne. The effect was somewhat reduced as Her Lordship frowned at him in unwavering, unconcerned austerity. The aura she projected was something anyone, even a fool, would feel and recognize: a queen surveying a servant, a slave, playing at being royalty.

…and it was beginning to lose its entertainment value.

Kendoh snorted, but the seeds of uncertainty were there. It showed in the quiver of his mustache, in the way his eyes flicked over her before he actually _studied_ her, taking in her gear and lightsaber rather than to gauge her aesthetic value. Finally, "Hmph! Baras isn't even on my radar, Sith. I have a war to wage and personal ambitions to achieve." He waved a hand vaguely, dismissively, even.

Her Lordship's posture lost some of its trained tightness, easing into comfortable preparedness as she unhooked one lightsaber from her belt, examining it pointedly before glancing sidelong at the Duke. "Is _breathing_ one of your personal ambitions?" she purred. The tone seemed at odds with the suffering it promised.

It sent a tiny thrill through me and not an unpleasant one. I don't believe in needless cruelty, but Her Lordship has a way of making her bouts of it obscenely alluring.

Something in the air shifted, nothing I could put my finger on, but I perceived it as an increased attention to Her Lordship by the Duke's Sith.

It was strange, since I would not call her a conventional beauty, the effect she had on the male population: a third of the Balmorra garrison, officers and enlisted alike, would have happily lined up to be abused by her if it meant being in her company. There's something… _compelling_ … about Her Lordship, something that grabs and holds the attention.

That's my experience, at least.

Her low laugh echoed in my head: _ah, Quinn—people will forgive you just about anything if you are charming and powerful._

She was certainly both.

"A threat?" Kendoh chortled, then motioned negligently to his silent, stony Sith.

That Her Lordship again ignored them spoke loudly. It said that she had no concern for these Sith, that they were not a threat to her person. I did not afford them the same trust—though, again, 'trust' was not the correct word. Dealing with Sith leaves a person short on words with the correct nuance when discussing them.

Not for the first time, I reminded myself not to judge a Sith by their looks. They have abilities that defy the usual paradigms used to assess threats. A big man isn't necessarily as powerful as a small woman and neither is likely to be able to overpower Her Lordship. I'll truly worry when things stop looking as easy for her as they do.

Because that's something I don't mistake: it takes true skill, true ability, great effort to make everything she does look as natural and effortless as breathing.

"You see these Sith I have in attendance? They're my _bodyguards_ and not just for show. Your corpse will be my message to your master. FimmRess. Make this intruder an unpleasant _distant_ memory." He waved in a truly dismissive fashion that caused the Sith FimmRess' hard-featured, chiseled face to cloud.

Her Lordship finally acknowledged the Sith attendants, formally recognizing them as being living entities as opposed to imposing decorations. "Gentlemen," she said simply, inclining her head.

"I'm sorry, Duke Kendoh," rasped FimmRess, a hulking, heavily-armored figure that no doubt terrified non-Sensitive opponents, "but we will not."

"…what?" the Duke asked blankly, his smug expression sliding off like mud from a wall. It took effort not to smile, the change was so quick. He looked from FimmRess to Her Lordship and back, as though he couldn't understand why his Sith couldn't crush this Sith with ease. Clearly, he judged by the idea that several strapping men ought to be able to crush this woman, no matter how powerfully built she was.

In this instance, it's less a matter of 'couldn't' and more of 'wouldn't.' Darth Baras is a major player in Sith politics and highly influential, or such was my understanding. That would carry over, in some degree, to an apprentice superintending his interests. Her Lordship also has a way of inspiring respect and deference in others.

"We are tasked to support House Thul's interests in the struggle for Alderaan," FimmRess answered neutrally, but gleams of amusement at being able to say 'go screw yourself' (essentially) appeared in the eyes of the Duke's attendants.

Even the Duke did not miss that FimmRess said ' _House Thul's_ interests', implying that Kendoh's _personal_ interests were of little to no concern in the grand scheme of things.

Kendoh seem to shrink in his chair as he realized _who_ had the power in this room. Clearly, he never expected such a thing, his not being the foremost individual in this office. The new experience didn't agree with him.

"But we serve the Emperor first. We will _not_ cross Darth Baras. We will _not_ cross his apprentice," FimmRess finished, quietly, respectfully, but with an edge of pleasure at informing the Duke of the actual pecking order.

Kendoh had not gone out of his way, not so much as a millimeter, to try to secure the goodwill of his Sith or to act in a way that would inspire at the very least _indifference_ in his bodyguards.

Unwise.

"You have my thanks, FimmRess, for facilitating my master's agenda," Her Lordship responded inclining her head again as if acknowledging they were under no obligation to be so polite to her while obliging her master's objectives.

"We consider you an ally, friend," FimmRess responded as he, and his fellows, promptly returned her a brief obeisance. It was shallow—she was only an apprentice—but it got the message across. She represented her master, who was to be respected. As his apprentice, she enjoyed a greater show of courtesy than others might be entitled to.

Additionally, she could make the Duke squirm without compromising her instructions. Could and demonstrated herself willing to do so.

Her Lordship watched them until they straightened. "Let us not stand on formality in the future, friends," she agreed warmly.

I personally doubted either of them meant it when they say 'friend'—they simply meant it as 'you're not my enemy and it's no benefit to either us or our masters to try to kill each other.' It was all show for the Duke who had, by now, gone somewhat pasty beneath his facial hair. If not for causing the Duke discomfiture, the formalities certainly established basic cordiality between Sith with powerful masters.

I suspected though, that Her Lordship was already working to secure some measure of respect or goodwill from these other Sith. Quietly, deviously, even if the only payout was continued courtesy in the facilitation of Darth Baras' will. Her Lordship's upbringing as a socialite—someone who had a lot to do with people in general—showed through particularly strongly, even if it remained limned over by her very… Sithiness? That hardly seems a proper word.

…and it smacked of Vette.

Ever the great lady is Her Lordship.

"Ah… okay…" Kendoh swallowed convulsively as he eyed Her Lordship with new wariness. "That was… unexpected."

"Would you sit there slouching like that in the presence of Alderaanian nobility?" Her Lordship demanded, voice rife with disapproval, like a strict governess with a slothful charge.

The Sith in the room returned to their stoic deadpans, but I could still discern traces of amusement in their steely eyes as this new Sith, unfettered by orders, made the wretched excuse for a Duke squirm. It was hard to suppress the resurgence of impression: that Kendoh, in many ways, resembled Moff Broysc. I did not let my mind wander far ont hat topic, but it wandered far enough to imagine the Moff under the suffocating displeasure of Her Lordship, writhing like a worm on a hook.

That would be a thing to see.

"It seems I may have been unduly hasty with regards to your master's needs." The Duke tried to rise autocratically to his feet—he certainly spoke as if that was the impression he preferred to make. He failed spectacularly; in actuality, the man sprang to his feet with an unctuous smile trying to slide across his face. No grace, no sense of power, nothing. He was nothing more than another stooge toadying up—or trying to—to a powerful Sith.

It couldn't be clearer he was trying to figure out how to make her useful to himself, how he could nudge or apply her to his own problems without her knowing. Clearly, he was a man used to turning situations to his advantage. Dangerous, in his way, but the final point will go to Her Lordship. And she plays for keeps.

Not for the first time this fact about Her Lordship made me shiver. I'm still not sure what game she's playing—or trying to play while I skirt it—with me. The fact remains that I'm involved in one way or another… and I'm still not sure whether that's a bad thing or not.

Her words the day I asked to join her crew, just before I left to assemble my things and submit the papers for the transfer, echoed in my head. ' _You should know, Captain: I'm much more interested in what's above your shoulders than what's below your belt._ ' Reassuring in some ways (it was obvious she meant it to be), disconcerting in others.

I mentally shook myself. This isn't the time for such considerations. Focus, Malavai.

It was at this point I decided that Her Lordship was unlikely to come across any member of the Empire's supporters on this world who came close to being a match for her. She was a shark amongst lesser fish, a fact of which she was well aware.

"How can I make amends, my lord?" the Duke ended, his smile fully in place, but his eyes were hard, the lines around them deeply etched. She'd embarrassed him and he resented her for it. The nobility of Alderaan is so ensconced in its own superiority—so my research indicates—that it does not take much effort to get on their bad side. They react with extremes to challenges and, as a general rule, have weak bowels when it comes to war or real action. They bleat about honor while truly believing in their own entitlement—which has no basis other than distinguished ancestors.

It's sickening if true; from the example of this Duke it probably is.

I must ask… why do we want this world again? The answer was painfully practical: the aristocracy was wealthy here. Stripping Republic supporters of their wealth and holdings would be no small coup for the Empire.

Her Lordship did not speak at first but, by rapid degrees, moved until Duke Kendoh, unwilling to have her close to his person, exchanged places with her, putting her behind his desk, with his Sith arrayed around her.

I moved to stand by her chair when she gave a slight nod of her head while the Duke stood before her, like a supplicant or the recipient of a disciplinary action. A bit heavy-handed I think, but it's not my place to make such observations aloud. Especially not with all those stony-eyed Sith shifting their attentions between Her Lordship and the Duke.

" _You_ may begin by bowing to me, too," Her Lordship intoned with a delicacy that threatened.

I resisted the urge to frown—that _was_ unnecessary.

The Duke, hatred open on his faced, complied. "Consider it a small demonstration of my penitence," Kendoh whinnied.

She had his neck firmly under her hand and was ensuring he knew who called the shots—that at this moment, everything he had was actually _hers_ : _his_ Sith, _his_ chair, _his_ desk… _all_ in her possession. The air he breathed passed through his lungs because she saw fit not to suspend that necessary function (literally).

Faced with her, he was nothing but an old man with titles that failed to elicit even the smallest measure of respect, while she presented herself as a formidable woman fit to rule a duchy or a planet and needed only to extend her hand to take one if she so desired. She really could do it, too.

A man who obtained titles through his pocketbook would garner more of her esteem at first sight than this Duke who was born to them. Paying out implied some kind of skill worth having been paid for in the first place.

Her Lordship sat down, back straight, presenting a much more impressive figure than the Duke ever had. She met his declaration with impassive attention, evidencing in her very silence that she expected more than empty pleasantries.

The first time Darth Baras asked me for my opinion of Her Lordship, I told him she was the ocean in which others drowned. Like the ocean, however, Her Lordship isn't restricted to drowning those who cross her: the Duke might break on the rocks, drown amidst flotsam, freeze to death in the open waters or simply be crushed in the deeps. And, like the sea, Her Lordship wouldn't care overmuch, one way or the other.

Not for the first time, I wondered if I was being foolish: the ocean doesn't discriminate between those who love it and those who don't. The unwary die; even some of the well-prepared die. But the dangers have never stopped maritime operations.

And, like the sea, Her Lordship has a call that is difficult to walk away from once heard.

Malavai, my friend, you'd have done well to put wax in your ears.

"I pledge the same level of focus that had me so absorbed in my own work," Kendoh began to chatter to fill the cold silence. It was clear he'd fallen back on the same cordial courtesies and formalities that enabled Her Lordship not to gag when speaking to him.

Stars knew I wanted to. The bloodlines here might be old, but they did seem to have run _thin_ in recent generations. If blood here ran blue it was due to a lack of oxygen and nothing else. If the Empire ever brought this planet to heel, perhaps it would be better to shuffle some of the Dromund Kaas nobility out here to fill the places of those Houses that were abolished for their misdirected rebellion.

If my opinion had weight, I would suggest Her Lordship fill a role analogous to that of Darth Lachris on Balmorra. 'Advisor' to the planetary leadership while, _ipso facto_ , running the place. No need for me then, I suppose, but it would be better for the Empire than what I've seen around here so far.

A scheming look—the look a ferret or a skunk, probably the latter, might wear—crossed the Duke's open features as he added, in what was probably his idea of subtle, "And as I aid you in your most worthy objectives, perhaps you will be moved to help me in mine…?"

The air around Her Lordship thickened. "We shall see," her tone was degrees warmer, but I doubted any of the Sith were fooled by it. She'd say the sky was _green_ rather than publicly agree with Kendoh given the mood she's in. Right now, she's showing she's willing to grease the wheels. Or, at least, pretending she might consider doing so in order to get him off a subject that causes her indigestion. "Time will tell."

Frankly, it was stupid in the extreme for him to make such a suggestion so close to having offended her—or, rather, so close to having soured her mood. I don't think this Duke is capable of actually offending her, since she doesn't respect him as any kind of an equal. Still, it's clear he doesn't appreciate Sith for what they really are.

"I am focused and at your service. Now… what were you here for…?"

"Jaesa. Willsaam. Don't play the fool and ruin my sunny disposition." She settled back in the chair, presenting herself as perfectly at her ease but without breaking her presentation of the competent, confident noblewoman.

The Sith around her subtly moved to reinforce with whom they stood—Her Lordship, _not_ the Duke. They smirked at this declaration, leaving me to suspect the Force users all had an ear open to one another, catching undercurrents I and the Duke lacked.

"Ah, yes, that was the name. The young handmaiden who was taken off Alderaan to train with Jedi Master Nomen Karr," the Duke declared, straightening his posture as if addressing a military council. It seemed to help him as he floundered before Her Lordship and her apparent supporters. "I was to locate her family so that you could, well… send a message." He smirked at the idea of this message, but received no response to encourage his attempt at supportive enthusiasm.

"I'm glad you remember the scenario. Now, departing from what you remember of my mission, what do you actually _know_? Were you _successful_ in your researches?" Her Lordship asked archly, grinding Kendoh beneath her boot—again, to excess. The man was clearly cowed… then again, the Duke might start feeling clever once Her Lordship left the palace. Perhaps a lasting impression _was_ best. Men like him do tend to bounce back quickly after pressure ceases to be exerted.

"You must understand, my lord, information on this girl was difficult to come by. I managed only one lead."

The threat of disapproval roiled around Her Lordship, making me wonder—not for the first time—if she could project what she chose to feel so that a less gifted crowd might understand her fully. Or _mis_ understand, as the case—though not this one—might be.

"She fits the description of the former handmaiden of a noblewoman of House Alde, Lady Renata. I would have questioned her already, but Renata is protected by House Alde's greatest champion. The man has never met his match in melee." The Duke seemed to vomit up the words, he released them so hastily.

I repressed a smile, glancing down at Her Lordship's fall of red hair. I doubt anyone less than an exceptionally experienced Jedi could cause her much concern—even then, it depended on the Jedi. Regard the way she'd dissected the Jedi investigator on Balmorra.

…well, I suppose she's fought and killed Jedi Masters too. I flinched at the memory.

"He's never met _me_ , either. I look forward to the proving."

As did I, though I'd never admit it. I'm not one for bloodsports, but Her Lordship's execution of combat is breathtaking to watch. Another instance of Sith beauty, which reminded me of natural disasters, like the tornados of Balmorra, twisting air that destroys anything in its path—incorporating and repurposing the debris it takes in—until it runs out of energy.

"If I may," the Duke continued, a shifty look coloring his expression as he studied Her Lordship, "once you've eliminated her protector and gotten what you need, I would personally be greatly indebted if you arranged to have Lady Renata brought to me. For questioning."

'Questioning.' Was that what they call it now? I imagined the only question posed would be 'will you hold still?' It's not up to me, one way or another. I don't suppose I care.

" _Don't_ tell me what to do," Her Lordship answered with cold authority that should have ended the conversation.

Association with Her Lordship let me catch what Kendoh didn't: the Duke's suggestion that she deliver the girl up to him insulted her deeply—a trick, since one recognizes insults only from equals… or the unusually egregious inferior. The suggestion was certainly _distasteful_ , but I didn't see why it should angerher. Her fingers pressed into the arms of her chair, the tips blanching, even if the rest of her posture remained comfortably relaxed.

Her Lordship did not seem to notice the evidences of her sudden anger.

"I apologize if that sounded like a _declaration_ ," Kendoh responded quickly, taking her lack of solid answer as consideration.

Consideration of why she shouldn't lop his head off, perhaps. Why was she so angry? Something from her past? Perhaps something from a close friend's past? Clearly she was thinking as an aristocrat and not a Sith… it concerned me that I could tell the difference. It either meant I was learning her well… or that I didn't know the first thing about her.

"It-it was simply a request. While House Alde is a small player on Alderaan, it is affiliated with House Organa," the Duke struggled to explain.

"I see what you are proposing," Her Lordship answered evenly, giving no hint in her tone of the anger still resulting in blanched fingertips, "a sound political stratagem."

Perhaps the anger was multifaceted; she would normally be annoyed that he was already asking her for favors. Annoyed, but not angry. And I couldn't see _her_ being bandied about as a political match on Dromund Kaas. What I understand of her family means they might dangle an unpleasant prospect in front of her and expect her to escape it on her own, sharpening her against anyone who might try to force her into a position she didn't want.

The Duke took heart. "It also means that Lady Renata's estate is in enemy territory and _very_ well-defended. Be cautious."

"Caution is for worms like you," Her Lordship responded darkly, sharply enough to cut to the bone.

Again, the Sith around her smirked in their discreet way, enjoying the show as she bullied the Duke.

Not that the little weasel didn't deserve a little strong-arming. I'd never seen such a true waste of space.

The Duke smiled in a sickly fashion, "I won't argue with you there."

"I have heard that the hospitality of the Alderaanian Great Houses is worthy of remark. I look forward to seeing if it is so. You will make arrangements for myself and my entourage. I travel with Captain Quinn, here, and one slave. I refuse to be quartered with either and refuse to have them quartered together, though I require easy access to both."

Her Lordship fell silent, waiting, waiting… until the Duke finally paid her a reverence and withdrew.

From his own office.

Closing the door respectfully behind him.

" _That_ was an excellent showing, friend," FimmRess declared throatily, to the general agreement of his comrades (two of whom broke off to accompany the Duke). They all seemed to shake loose from invisible bonds, like men emerging from an outer shell that allowed them to masquerade as statuary.

"I'm glad you all enjoyed it," Her Lordship responded, her tone almost friendly. "He's quite the weasel."

General agreement ensued. Now that Kendoh was gone, the remaining Sith turned their attention to me. It was mildly polite—as Sith went—though Her Lordship did not elaborate on my presence. The implication was not lost on anyone: her entourage was her business. If she wanted me, or Vette, or anyone else present, no one would be allowed to gainsay her. It contained a subtle compliment that, like her earlier implication, was not lost.

"Was he honest about Renata? And House Alde?" Her Lordship asked, her posture relaxing as she settled more comfortably in the Duke's chair.

"Surprisingly so," FimmRess responded, returning his attention to her, his eyes sweeping over her with curiosity and interest. He wasn't alone; the Sith seemed to approve what they saw—or perceived—as postures continued to relax into something casual. Casual readiness, I corrected myself. "The Duke has sent other Sith before. The bodyguard—a slow-witted brute by name of Windredd—is gifted, for being utterly non-Sensitive."

"I look forward to meeting him," Her Lordship answered.

"Be careful when you do," FimmRess cautioned.

Unlike with the obsequious Duke, Her Lordship accepted the cautionary remark gracefully. "I'm _always_ careful.Keep well, friends."

The Sith all inclined their heads, then trooped out with no sign of being displeased or eager to do so.

So, that's what she meant to accomplish by pushing the Duke around: not just putting him in line, but winning over, in some measure, his Sith. They'll watch him, tell her if he tries to pull anything sneaky.

Her Lordship got to her feet, then tore the curtains blocking the window behind the Duke's desk open, letting brilliant evening sunlight flood into the room, bathing her skin in an orange glow that, with her red hair, made her seem illuminated from within. For a moment she seemed to bask in the warmth, drinking in the touch of the sun.

"This place is sickening," she finally snarled softly. Whether to her reflection in the glass or to me, I wasn't certain, so I remained silent. "Give me your impressions, Quinn."

I obeyed, methodically detailing the little things of note I'd taken in, Her Lordship nodding from time to time but refraining from interrupting.

"We'll be back on the job tomorrow. I plan to take you with me while leaving Vette here as eyes and ears," Her Lordship declared with a hint of weariness in her tone.

"My lord, if I may, I would advise against basing yourself in this place. The security is questionable, the rooms are probably all bugged, and it disrupts your focus."

She gave a soft chuckle which I knew was resultant of my expressed concern for her personal wellbeing. Security and bugs can be dealt with easily, after all. "I'll have Vette go over the rooms before we discuss anything truly vital. She's good at it. I'm making a statement to the Duke: he will _bend_ or he will _break_. If he gives me a reason to put him out of my misery, so much the better." Her tone held a smile; it was rare, insofar as my experience with her goes, for her to want so much to kill someone so pathetic.

I said nothing to this, surprised that she should be so open with her thoughts. Or perhaps I oughtn't. Her Lordship values people she considers to be somewhat her equals. An openness of thought implies she finds me such, to some degree.

What didn't surprise me was how quickly Duke Kendoh, knowingly or unknowingly, became dependent on Darth Baras' sufferance to keep Her Lordship from destroying him. I suspected however, that Her Lordship would push the Duke into something she could legitimately claim as 'reasonable cause' to destroy him. "Shall I fetch Vette and Tuvi for you, my lord?"

"Please do. Relay to her my orders and see that she is prepared to search the rooms provided in-depth for monitoring devices. Have Tuvi bring things for several days for all of us. I will remain here until you return."

I inclined my head and withdrew, the air outside the office feeling cooler and calmer than the air within.


	9. Chapter 9

For the duration of Quinn's story it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Quinn's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

 **Alderaan, Part II**

The Duke didn't lie about House Alde being well guarded. Her Lordship, however, had worked herself into such a potent rage by the time we arrived that my presence in combat was almost unnecessary. I felt certain the root of her anger came from the Duke's suggestion she bring Lady Renata back to him. Again, the why of such deep sympathy for the girl remained puzzling.

My thoughts boiled down to the idea being _distasteful_ —she is not, after all, a procuress and the implication she should involve herself in _that_ line of work would touch her pride in no pleasing way. To own a slave is one thing; to break another sapient's spirit is another; she does both. Apparently being asked to use her power as a Sith to do the latter in order to involve herself in the actual trade in the former is just too much.

This is a war zone, however, and the lady _is_ with the enemy. A smarter man than the Duke might recognize that she could be ransomed back… though that is a clumsier circumstance than _I_ would wish to employ. Exchanging prisoners for ransom is always clumsy.

Her Lordship tore through the House Alde guards, slammed through any door in her way, and shattered anything breakable she encountered. Finally, she battered her way into a large room where a girl in a pale dress, which in no way complimented her looks, stood half-screened by a massive mountain of a man who admirably suited FimmRess' indication that he was strong but stupid. The heavy armor and formidable weapon he brandished won't save him, although they did make an imposing show.

Her Lordship slowed in her pace, prowling as she studied her new targets, lightsabers swinging slightly in anticipation of further use.

"My lady. We have intruder," the bodyguard grunted, lowering at Her Lord from under heavy brows and the overhang of his forehead which cast his eye sockets into shadow.

Oh stars above… the man _is_ a moron, barely competent with Basic—no, with _speech in general._

The lady seemed quite content that her man-mountain was invincible, affectedly adjusting the fall of her skirt, fingers brushing her hair to check everything was still neat.

Such a contrast to Her Lordship, skin glazed with sweat, the hairs close to her scalp frizzing up into little curls, scarred and muscular. But power hung around her, seemed to charge the air, something raw and visceral that lit up her entire aspect. Power, and pleasure in using it, in _feeling_ it.

"Lady Renata." None of the anger still rolling off Her Lordship appeared in her cool, businesslike tone. The readiness in her shoulders and the care not to settle into a firm stance, but to remain easy on the balls of her feet, belied the calm. "I seek the family of your former handmaiden, Jaesa Willsaam."

"What is this nonsense you're spouting?" the lady demanded, her voice high and grating on the ears, snide at best, shrewish—I'm sure—at worst. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Lady. Let me kill this Sith. Like the last one Duke Kendoh sent," Windredd almost pouted.

It took great effort not to grimace or sneer. What is _wrong_ with this planet? Is it in the water? Should Her Lordship begin drinking out of a hydration pack rather than risk the local stuff?

The lady rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as if this were all very boring, completely unaware of her peril.

Growing disgust painted itself across Her Lordship's face, the glow she'd assumed on the way here dimming slightly.

"Don't let her get away," Her Lordship growled, giving her hair a toss. The growl indicated she was going to _break_ the lady by taking Windredd apart piece by piece, exhibiting nothing but hard-hitting artistry and ease.

I looked forward to the spectacle. It was less like watching a dancer and more like watching an accomplished gymnast. Sport and art blended together.

"It shall be as you say, my lord," I responded blandly as Lady Renata gave her loyal mutt the attack command he wanted so badly.

The lady did not have easy access to an escape route in the first place. Moreover, Her Lordship's battle kept her trapped even without my watchfulness.

The lady watched, first with grim satisfaction, then slow shadows of doubt crept in, then sickened surprise settled, until she turned almost grey, which made the white in her dress seem awkwardly yellow.

Her Lordship apparently turned down the power of her lightsabers: they were not strong enough to slice off limbs, but left ugly damage every time they connected with vulnerable flesh or simple cloth.

The battle moved back and forth. Windredd, to his credit, was a good swordsman, but he was no Sith. He was unused to an opponent who could strike out with either hand, or to one who was hard-hitting as well as nimble. Finally, Her Lordship jumped back from her prey, made an adjustment to her lightsaber as Windredd took advantage of the space to charge her.

This time I managed _not_ to blink when she did it, and _saw_ the red beam of her lightsaber vanish for a fraction of a second as she sidestepped before reigniting in time to slice Windredd's head clean off his shoulders to bounce to the lady's feet (I suspected Her Lordship employed the Force for that little snippet of theatricality).

The lady didn't scream, merely gave a low groan in the back of her throat, then took two steps back before collapsing to the floor, her skirts billowing around her.

Pathetic.

Her Lordship marched over to the quivering lady, whose eyes remained locked with the unseeing ones of her former champion.

"Look at me," Her Lordship commanded, her breathing elevated but her tone remained competent, not breathy with exertion. All things with determination and deliberation. She's a woman fit to rule worlds.

After shaking them, of course. The Empire needs more Sith of her brand and fewer psychopaths drunk on their own power. I don't often allow myself to appreciate Her Lordship as a woman, but incandescent from the fight and compared to the trembling noble at her feet, I couldn't help it.

Her Lordship reached out one lightsaber hilt, caught the lady's chin with it and forced the woman to look up at her. She was all ivory, flame and darkness, strength and power, illuminated from within by what I was beginning to realize was some manifestation of the Force, made visible because it had a human conduit. Sweat coated her in a glistening glaze, darkening her hair near the scalp. She was the perfect antithesis to the weak-willed, delicate woman—now looking almost like a mere girl—sprawling helplessly on the floor in her fancy dress.

I'd never seen such a pathetic woman as this Lady Renata in all my life: she didn't try to scuttle back, didn't try for defiance, merely trembled with eyes raised imploringly as she waited for death. It did not evoke sympathy, especially when she glanced in my direction with those big ready-to-be-tearful eyes.

As if I'd be moved by a 'poignant position.'

I shook my head slightly. No, no sympathy here. She ought to have taken better precautions than the protection of one stupid brute. Perhaps learning to fire a blaster. It wouldn't _help_ , but it would be _something_.

" _Speak_."

And, like a trained akk dog, the lady began to babble, how she was sorry she'd ordered Windredd to kill Her Lordship, the hope that Her Lordship wouldn't take it amiss, excuses of how she'd been resisting Duke Kendoh's increasingly insistent advances, assurances of glad cooperation if Her Lordship wasn't working for the Duke.

Pathetic. I could barely imagine their positions reversed, Her Lordship brought low and at someone else's mercy. Somehow, the idea of Her Lordship on the floor, looking up at some assailant was not poignant, either: she would be furious, trying to think of a way to get out of her difficulty, down but not defeated.

The closest I could manage was that look on Balmorra, eyes ablaze, nostrils flared, tense, posture rigid as the Jedi flung the idea of mission failure at her. Behind the fire, the anger, had been a shadow, a cold uncertainty of what she was to do now that matters were truly out of her hands.

More than that, I remembered the look on her face when receiving assurance that such was _not_ the case, that all was well, that she needn't feel an ounce of distress about the matter.

' _Quinn I could_ _kiss_ _you._ ' The burning look still made my skin prickle; even as it did, I couldn't decide whether it was a good prickle or not.

That's the thing one doesn't hear about Sith very often: they're known as creatures of deep emotion, but they aren't often noted as being able to inspire such things in others—anger and fear excepted.

I mentally shook myself. No, Her Lordship would just lure her enemy in close and tear out the fool's eyes with her bare hands or—at worst—quite literally chew out his jugular. Her Lordship isn't squeamish. She'd throw herself on her enemy's blade if nothing else was available, that it might be said 'Lord Hellanix! Threw herself on so-and-so's sword rather than be at his mercy!'

The knowledge of 'if their positions were reversed' only made Lady Renata all the more pathetic. Knowledge that Her Lordship is, in my experience, rather unique didn't temper my assessment.

What is _wrong_ with the nobles on this planet?

"I want Jaesa Willsaam," Her Lordship dictated darkly. "I was told she served you."

"If you've met Duke Kendoh you know he's a _liar_ ," the lady snapped, showing the first bit of spirit. "Take _nothing_ he says at face value."

"He's asked for you, you know." The threat was explicit.

Renata turned almost bone-white, her eyes big as she searched Her Lordship's face. If any of the anger Her Lordship had displayed over the suggestion she bring Renata to the Duke remained, it must not be visible on her face, for the lady shrank away from her as if certain of no sympathy.

Feet caught my attention, prompting me to turn. FimmRess and two of his fellows entered the room, casting a look of curiosity at me, before FimmRess directed himself at Her Lordship. "My lord," which struck me as being overly polite. A good thing, to be sure. "Duke Kendoh will be able to get your answers out of her."

Why bother waiting? Her Lordship is adept at wringing answers out of people. Apparently it's part of the Korriban curriculum; more than that, it's part of the final trials.

Her Lordship turned, suddenly a wall between the Sith and the lady behind her, who'd given a strangled cry… but that was all. By this point, I would have approved even a foolish run for it. It would have been _something_ other than impotent protestations, some sign that she considered her fate her own. As it was, Lady Renata looked ready to simply faint where she was.

Her Lordship wasn't happy to see the Duke's Sith, that was certain. The rage didn't show, but the Duke just ensured any contemplation of the benefits of his goodwill obtained via the lady's person died, snuffed out by his assignment of Sith to ensure his wishes. The fact remained that they were outsiders stepping into Her Lordship's mission; that wasn't something she took kindly.

Somehow, I doubted they were any happier to be sent here than she was to have them. Or, rather, they were disappointed that they missed the fight.

"Is this the brute that killed Argo's brother?" FimmRess asked, examining Windredd's ruined remains. Lightsabers might cauterize as they cut, but Her Lordship had hers turned down: the damages were brutal and ugly.

"That he is. Well, most of him." Her Lordship found the head and gave it a nudge with her foot. "The rest is right here."

Again, I saw her work the Sith, work the lady, composing the attitudes in the room to her favor as she staved off the anger tensing the tiny muscles around her eyes. I wondered, as the Sith studied her, looking away from the corpse, if they saw her as anything like I did. Perhaps they saw her as more, Sith faculties of perception being what they are.

"As I said, the Duke would have us bring the fair lady to him. He can retrieve your answers," FimmRess declared with a shrug and without looking at the lady.

The lady did show some spirit, then. She got to her feet, though she did it like a gangling colt and looked ready to fall back over again. It wasn't spirit, I decided, it was being pushed past desperation.

"No! _No_! Don't let him take me to that-that _pig_!" The lady seemed ready to grab Her Lordship by the arm, as if to hide behind her, but thought better of it at the last moment, clasping her hands, wringing them.

"Make yourself a valuable resource to me, or I cannot justify wasting my resources on you," Her Lordship answered simply, cuttingly.

The lady knew, I'm sure, that her only option was to do just that. No amount of appeals to honor would help, no hope of sympathy would preserve her. Her Lordship wielded the threat of the Duke's 'hospitality' quite neatly.

"I was aware of the young handmaiden who left Alderaan with the Jedi Master… I might have heard the name Jaesa, but you're mistaken, my lord, the girl never served me! Before she left, she was the handmaiden of Gesselle Organa, of that house." The answers came spewing out in a hurried rush. "They were inseparable."

"Tell me about Gesselle Organa," Her Lordship commanded.

The lady swallowed hard, every inch a drowning woman desperate to save herself, clutching at flotsam. "B-before the war, Gesselle was an aristocrat, like me. Now, she leads Organa troops against House Ulgo."

"Really?" Her Lordship's eyebrows arched, surprised at even the hope of finding a competent noble. "Where can I find this woman?"

"I—" The lady's words stuck in her throat. When she continued, the words rang with truth, pure, unvarnished fact, "Her headquarters are somewhere on the front line. I-I'm not acquainted with them myself."

Clearly.

"The Duke will know where to find her," FimmRess put in, crossing his arms over his bulky chest. "He may even come up with a way to reach her. _If_ he's motivated." It was not a suggestion that Her Lordship acquiesce to the Duke's request. In fact, I rather thought the Sith would rather see the Duke put out, misery loving company as it does.

Her Lordship smiled coldly.

Oh, I do believe she can motivate him if anyone can.

"If you let me deliver Lady Renata to him—" FimmRess began.

"No."

I wondered, for a moment, if I dared point out the practicality of doing so. The concern that it might diminish her in the eyes of her fellow Sith, to take the advice of a mere non-Sensitive captain, stayed my tongue. She must have sensed something, though, for she turned to glare, orange-eyed at me.

It was rather like being caught in a powerful spotlight. Once again, that direct gaze looked into me, found the thing lurking in that duracrete bunker in the back of my soul, the thing that always looked back, resulting in that odd jerk, as though something had hooked behind my navel and tugged. It was a part of me I didn't want, but it was something she wanted… and, to be truthful, that part of me _wanted_ her with an intensity that left me uncomfortable at best… and unnerved me at worst.

" _No._ " She swept a gaze around the room, disgust with all present coloring her features until they curled into a snarl. "I shall take it amiss," she said, so calmly it was clear the effort involved was one of sheer will, "if anyone here ever again dares to suggest—by word, deed, or implication—that I am a procuress of flesh for _anyone_ …" She trailed off the threat. With another grim look at the room, "All of you: go." She pointed with her unlit lightsaber to the door.

FimmRess took her display in stride, inclining his head to her again. "As I said, we will not interfere with your decisions, in this matter or any other."

She nodded. "You as well, Captain."

I bowed as well, striding out after the Sith. I paused long enough to touch the door, silently asking if she wanted it closed behind her. She shook her head once, then turned to Lady Renata.

The lady had only time to open her mouth—possibly to thank Her Lordship—before Her Lordship smoothly and without warning hewed the woman's head off her shoulders. It was another sign that Her Lordship intended to kill the Duke once the man outlived his usefulness. As far as this soft aristocrat, I could imagine Her Lordship claiming Lady Renata knew too much about what Her Lordship wanted and might yet have spunk enough to try to interfere once threat of death or torture was gone.

Operational prudence and operational security are marvelous catch-all justifications. I could almost hear her answer to the Duke when he inevitably voiced his disappointment: ' _your information was inaccurate. I do not reward inaccuracy._ '

 **Alderaan, Part III**

Watching Her Lordship in combat, when she gets into the swing of things, is like watching the tornados of Balmorra: fascinating at a distance, terrifying up close, leaving an indiscriminate trail of carnage. We gauge these columns of wind by the amount of damage they cause; if Sith were gauged the same way, there is no reason to believe Her Lordship wouldn't be on the Dark Council right now.

She raised her hands and, using the Force, pried the heavy blast doors open. Her Lordship rarely uses the Force so obviously. I never thought to question why, nor did I intend to ask her. It's Sith business, therefore none of mine. Nevertheless, I'd noticed that with the exception of those who traveled with her, witnesses to such displays didn't usually survive the following encounter with her. Almost as though she wanted to keep her strength with the Force secret or underestimated.

"—almost have the force field reset!" a frail old voice announced. "But we're still a sitting duck!"

Her Lordship paused, like a cat, then continued to moved forward, step light for being so self-assured. The muscles in her back played beneath the flesh, reiterating the ridiculousness of that abbreviated vest she likes so much.

' _And I know you like it too, Quinn,'_ she'd smirked, the last time I brought up the impracticality of it.

I didn't deny it, though as far as armor… it covers her up, but that's about it. One would think that scarring on her side would have encouraged protective gear that is more… well, _protective_.

"There've been several assassinations on House Thul officials whose security systems went down after the generator explosion," another male, less panicky, declared.

Damn that slug. I knew he sounded too enthusiastic about his plan. We worried too much about his giving us faulty equipment and not enough about—

…unless Her Lordship sacrificed those officials in order to have a reason to execute the Duke as a traitor. Come to think of it, the Duke mentioned many people, fellow House Thul members included, operate power taps like the one Her Lordship disabled.

Damn him.

"In my opinion, House Ulgo is behind this."

"You opinion is about to change," Her Lordship announced in that silky purr she uses when she knows she's about to kill someone and wishes to take in the experience. I _should_ find such interest—almost amusement, remembering that Alde woman's bodyguard—disturbing and repellant.

I wonder what it says about me that I don't.

"I'm looking for information on your former handmaiden, Jaesa Willsaam's family—though anything about _her_ would be much appreciated." She spoke so politely, as she usually did, but no one could miss the menace beneath. A polite Sith so often gives the wrong impression within her Order and without. Still, no one can argue with Her Lordship's results.

When Her Lordship prowled into the room, the men around General Gesselle fell back to form a semicircle with her. The weapons leveled at us flew out of hands with a gesture from Her Lordship to clatter uselessly on the floor near the walls.

"Let us be civilized about this," Her Lordship admonished.

Of all those present, only General Gesselle hadn't moved. She simply stood there, weight sunk into one hip, arms crossed over her chest, studying Her Lordship shrewdly. It came to me, as a ray of suspicion, that of all the nobility here on Alderaan—those to which I'd been exposed, at least—the General was as close to Her Lordship as was possible on this soft world with its overwhelming population of fools.

"Gesselle! Get behind me!" one impetuous fellow declared, moving to stand between the General and Her Lordship when the General showed no inclination to defensive behavior or action. He would have done better not to show his hand in such a fashion—the question is whether he's a weak point for the General. She's obviously a weak point for him.

I glanced at Her Lordship, wondering if I would ever do something so foolish as to compromise her by airing ridiculous sentiments so carelessly. Fortunately, I have been described as 'the coldest of cold fish' so perhaps it's not a concern.

"Nobody panic. I'll handle this," the General said in a tone remarkably similar to Her Lordship's. The wording was right, too. She gently set her gallant (that is to say, remarkably stupid) admirer aside and moved towards Her Lordship. She stayed back a healthy distance, but stood boldly apart from her entourage, casually ready but disinclined to act precipitously.

A slow smile suffused Her Lordship's face; while it made her look all the fiercer it was genuine.

"Did I hear you correctly, Sith?" the General asked in surprise. "You came all this way, perpetrated all this," she gestured with one delicate finger, "to ask about that little girl?"

"I doubt you would have taken my call," Her Lordship purred.

"It might have worked," the General answered dryly, "I'm a practical woman."

Her Lordship's face broke into an even more genuine, if still predatory, smile. "Oh, I _do_ like you, General. Truly."

Not that this will stop Her Lordship from cutting the General down where she stands.

"I'm flattered. Meanwhile, you've decimated my forces outside—forces I needed to bolster a flank that's about to fail," the General continued. "Now, I have no reinforcements. If you like me so much, maybe we can do this thing civilly."

"I'm curious to hear where this is going," Her Lordship mused in a tone I recognized as meaning 'I doubt I like you _that_ much.' Wise, on the whole: Baras would have her head if she compromised the war effort here by letting this Republic-loving general live. A pity this General can't be turned. If she's anything like Her Lordship, and she seems to be, she won't turn for anything. It's unfortunate.

"You seek information only I have. I have a problem you can definitely solve."

Her Lordship chuckled again. "You know that's not going to happen. This is what will happen, however: I shall kill your entourage, one by one, until you tell me what I want to know."

The General studied Her Lordship, her benign expression hardening into lines similar to those of the Sith before her. "You know _that's_ not going to happen," she returned, adjusting her footing. "Do it. I'm not a general with a soft heart. Everyone here knew the risks—even if you destroy my flea of a servant, it won't do you any good. Bolster my flank or this goes nowhere."

She put on a good face, I'll give her that much.

Unfortunately, Her Lordship is Sith. "Then you won't mind if I test your claims," she said softly. She flicked a hand and the impetuous fellow lurched, his hands going to his throat.

The General swallowed hard, but for a moment gave no evidence that the spectacle affected her—except the way her pupils shrank to pinpoints. Cracks began to appear in her composure at the man struggled. "This… isn't working, Sith," she declared in a low voice.

"Captain, I don't doubt you know the stages of asphyxiation. Perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten the General?"

Her Lordship does have a way of playing the macabre. And, make no mistake, it was macabre to stand there, detailing the process as the lad began to exhibit the outward signs, while Her Lordship watched. Her smile was gone, however. Unusually, she seemed to take no particular pleasure, hold no particular interest, in her course of action. Her attention remained fixed on the General.

"Stop!" the word tore out of the General's throat as she bounded up to her lover, hands fluttering helplessly. "I'll tell you what—"

"He is running out of time," Her Lordship declared coldly. "Best hurry up and spit it out."

"Parvan and Gregor Willsaam are servants in Castle Organa! They'll be stationed in the Central Tower! That's all I know about it—now stop choking Blenks!" her voice took on a desperate edge.

A sickening crunch followed and the body hit the ground, neck cocked at an unnatural angle.

Well. She did stop choking him.

The General did not, to her credit, burst into tears. Her face worked, but she held the evidence of grief back as she glared at Her Lordship. "You are _cruelty_ ," she said darkly.

"It comes with the territory," Her Lordship answered dispassionately. It was the lack of enthusiasm that spoke as to how distasteful—or, rather, regrettable—Her Lordship found the scenario into which she was locked. Within seconds, the rest of the General's entourage lay dead around her. All with a flick of Her Lordship's hands. Not for the first time, I wondered why Her Lordship prefers to avoid such overt displays. It seems less energy-intensive, more efficient.

"I hope you burn. I hope someone finds out what you _do_ care about and burns it right out from under you," the General's words came from so low in her throat they were almost inaudible.

"If ever I believed someone could curse me and make that curse stick, it would be you, General," Her Lordship answered. She strode over to the General, apparently intending to kill her up close. I recognized the sign of respect.

"I'll do more than curse you, you _bitch_ ," the General snarled the instant Her Lordship took a knee in front of her.

Suddenly, from nowhere, a vibroblade appeared in the General's hand.

Her Lordship screamed, a sharp sound of pain. She staggered back, reeling as the General regained her footing.

I had a clear line of fire—

"No."

I lowered the weapon, recognizing Her Lordship's 'I'll do this' tone. It didn't surprise me although this was hardly the time for dramatic gestures.

Her Lordship, snarling like the wounded creature she was, regained her footing. One hand clamped down on her belly; I could only suppose the Force allowed her to get out of the way fast enough for the blow to be superficial. Blood sheeted along her skin, catching on her waistband before sliding over her belt to disappear into the black folds of her robe.

A low, unpleasant chuckle emerged from her. "You're everything an aristocrat should be, Gesselle. Let's see if you die like one."

It didn't take long, though Her Lordship did honor the General by not resorting to the Force, but relied on a single lightsaber, injured as she was.

As soon as the General was dead, Her Lordship dropped to the floor with a grunt, blood gushing from the gaping, ragged gash in her belly. She gritted her teeth and cast me a look that was almost imploring. "Quinn…?"

"My lord, this vest of yours is utterly ridiculous," I announced, hurrying over to where she knelt. "It offers next to no protection whatsoever."

She chuckled then grunted in discomfort, lying back when prompted. "I like this vest." She spent a moment trying to figure out what to do with her hands—I don't think she cared for being in a passive position like that in a place like this, and wrapping her arms to cover the injury wasn't an option if she wanted it treated. She finally settled for fisting her hands in the material of her lower robe. "We need to leave quickly. I don't want to hang around too long."

I don't blame her.

"I'm afraid it doesn't like _you_ , my lord," I responded dryly, examining the gash now that the pressure of remaining upright no longer acted upon it. She flinched involuntarily when my fingers brushed the skin near the wound. It was shallow, but deep enough to cause her difficulties. She remained as unhampering as she could (and it seemed to take effort) while I did what I could for the wound. I frowned at the white butterfly strips holding her together, then shook my head. "My lord, I need to wrap this." The way she moves around, I don't dare _not_ wrap her up. She'll just tear what I've managed to repair.

She nodded, unabashedly undoing the hidden hooks of her vest, revealing a particularly snug chest binding. The scarring on her left side disappeared up beneath the undyed cloth. I tracked its progress, wondering what happened… and a little part of me didn't like the idea she'd been hurt that badly without being able to obtain prompt and proper treatment.

"Where… how is it best to keep my arms out of your way?" she asked uncertainly.

I looked up from the length of medical gauze to find her looking truly uncertain of how to help the process along. Passive wasn't a word associated with Her Lordship. I set the gauze on a corner of her robe, took her hands and put them on my shoulders. It got her elbows out of the way—and if she winced or flinched, I'd know.

Or… that's what I told myself. The pressure of her hands was solid, no trembling as if repressing pain.

Somewhat to my relief, Her Lordship remained still, as if waiting to take instruction. No fiddling fingers, no cute remarks, no teasing—all of which came as something of a surprise. I wrapped her tightly from the narrow part of her waist, all the way to just beneath the swell of her breasts, anchored with medical glue to keep the bottom and top from shifting. It was hard not to notice that, ignoring the scars, her skin was flawless, smooth and supple. "Does that feel secure?" I asked.

She flexed and moved, contorting as best she could, then prodded the slightly numbed injury. "It's secure."

I found her smirking once I was done, biting her lip as if she'd been holding her humor and teasing in. "I find it distressing that you only care when work gives you an excuse," she pouted, but her eyes glittered with mischief. She gave my shoulders a squeeze, then scooted back and began doing up her vest again. I never appreciated how snug the garment really was, in spite of its fitting like a sturdy second skin.

Stars and little planets, this woman is incorrigible. Strangely… the thought isn't troubling. Unnerving as anything, but not troubling.

How long can you tread water, Malavai? It looks as though it might well come down to that.

"I find it distressing that, believing this, you might do something careless," I answered, helping her to her feet.

She adjusted her vest again and the swing of her lower robe before examining the blood on her fingers. "Don't worry, Quinn. Not only am I not a fan of pain, I wouldn't wish to distress you unduly. Although I find your scolding rather adorable."

I almost, almost smiled. "Then please, for the love of everything, let us find you a better vest," I implored, handing her several wet wipes so she could clean up a little before I moved over to the General's corpse to rifle her pockets. A General always has interesting things in her pockets.

Her Lordship laughed that laugh that felt like something soft being dragged up the length of my backbone. Fortunately, I was able to stop her next comment by holding up a forestalling hand…

"Clever woman," Her Lordship breathed, regarding the live and transmitting holocommunicator the General had, at some point, cued. It seemed the audio of the whole encounter had been broadcast to whoever was on the other side. Her Lordship took the little device. "The body count will be lower if this scavenger hunt is not unduly extended." Then, with that, she crushed the device. "We'll continue the discussion of dress later."

 **Interlude: Jaesa**

It had never occurred to me that Lady Gesselle might strike Her Lordship as being any kind of equal. Though, from what I gather, this was all relative. I know the nobility of Alderaan—by type, not by close personal acquaintance—and they're a weak, spineless, sniveling bunch who don't know what to do if challenged by someone who won't be cowed or play their stupid games.

I'd also wondered about the scar on Her Lordship's stomach. The question of why the Captain hadn't mended it well enough that it didn't scar—something of which I believed him capable—now had an answer.

He hadn't mended it that well because it was Her Lordship's way of paying homage to someone she respected. I get the feeling she doesn't meet that kind of person very often.


	10. Chapter 10

For the duration of Quinn's story it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Quinn's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

 **Alderaan, Part IV**

I wished to all the stars Her Lordship would consider wearing a top that offered her a bit more protection. One would think whatever had marked her—some creature undoubtedly, with scrabbling claws—would have taught her the value of protecting her soft spots.

Permit me to rephrase: to protect vital regions. One could take a credit and bounce it off most planes of Her Lordship's body, the way one performs a bunk check in basic training.

I'd have to be content to leave the kolto patch to do its work and pray she didn't rip the butterfly strips beneath the patch out of place, thereby opening her wounds further. Fortunately, Her Lordship is not a Sith convinced of her own invincibility—possibly owing to the scars working their way down her left side from under her breastband almost to her knee… and possibly owing to the fact that they were relatively recent, those scars.

The relief that she would let me do my job, fix the injury properly once we were in a safer locale for doing so, was mild. Mild because I _knew_ her work would just get her banged up again. It was silly sentiment to entertain for a variety of reasons.

As we made our way through Castle Organa, Her Lordship worked herself into a towering rage—a rage held in check only by the discipline instilled in her to have a place to _direct_ one's rage as though it were a missile rather than simply throw it around to impress or intimidate people.

I'd never really wondered much about the Sith, their training, how they thought—it was all above my pay grade and lot in life—until Her Lordship appeared. What was it the Jedi called her? 'A fascinating and contradictory example of her Order.'

She's certainly that, not given to intemperate rages or abusing inferiors without cause, exercising her power rather than wasting breath to convince others she has it through weight of words. In some ways she reminds me forcibly of Darth Baras… yet I would never say that out loud, which in itself is suggestive. Like but not _like_ , so to speak.

By the time we reached the biggest, most ornate set of doors—I could only assume Her Lordship was employing some strange Force-scrying ability to pick her direction—she seemed almost beside herself, like a bomb ready to explode if jostled.

An ironic turn of phrase, really, because with a brisk motion the doors in front of us nearly flew off their hinges, slammed by some powerful, invisible force (another ironic turn of phrase) to allow us access. A brief survey revealed an assembly of house troopers superintended by a Jedi—all of whom looked discomposed. Behind this questionable line of defense was an older couple, both stark white and pasty, fear-sweat standing out on their skins.

For a few moments, up until Her Lordship stopped walking into the room, the only sound was that of our shoes on the glassy marble floor.

Such an exorbitant place, Alderaan, and the only place thus far that's gotten under Her Lordship's skin. She was fine on Balmorra; she was interested in Nar Shaddaa; even Tatooine's pervasive skin-searing suns didn't ruin her mood. Alderaan, though… I'd never seen her like this. In fact… I daresay she would consider it a reward to be allowed to stay in order to grind this world under her heel for no other reason than the satisfaction of hearing bones crack and flesh squish.

I could only suppose this came from her life as a member of the social elite rather than her life as a Sith.

The red light from Her Lordship's lightsaber flickered as she gave the weapon a twirl—less for show and more to keep her wrist loose. I've noticed she does it when she's thinking too, even if she's not holding a weapon.

I let my attention place her, the Jedi, and the Willsaam couple in my mind, leaving me free to concentrate on the troopers.

"Well, here we all are. At long last," Her Lordship declared softly, her purring tone hiding the bomb of emotional fuel upon which she sat.

"I didn't think one assailant…" the Willsaam man—Gregor, if I remember correctly—stammered, looking utterly flummoxed and more than a little shaky. He shook his head in lieu of finishing his sentence.

I had to agree with him, or would have… have done, as I think about it. On Balmorra, when I attributed typical Sith capabilities to Her Lordship. Not so, start to finish.

"I warn you, Sith, you will not harm Parvan and Gregor Willsaam. I have sworn it." The Jedi's voice was young, a clear tenor, with a timbre of someone who believed so fully in the fallibility of Sith and infallibility of his own Order that it made me want to retch. He wasn't taking Her Lordship seriously enough, which made me suspect he was attached to House Organa by blood and allowed himself to bask in the comfort of the home ground advantage.

House Organa likes to paint itself as one of Alderaan's heroes.

Thul is more practical: there are winners and there are losers.

I could almost hear Her Lordship's lip curling at this Jedi's blind surety. Surety without grounds to base it upon. "And your oaths have what to do with me?"

The troopers with the Jedi shifted uneasily, like so many nervous birds.

The Jedi grew tense, probably sensing even more forcibly than I did Her Lordship's bad mood sheeting off her, like rain on a Dromund Kaas window.

"Please, wait," Gregor intervened.

The Jedi turned, keeping one eye on Her Lordship, to give the man his attention. "Go ahead."

At least he had the sense not to look away completely. Taking his eyes off her for even a second would ensure he'd never see anything again.

"If we are really the cause of all this death I-I want to know _why_."

Easy: Her Lordship is a Sith hunting a Jedi. That much ought to be obvious. It astounds me how many people not allied with the Sith are surprised by their behavior. Nomen Karr on that little station, for instance, so surprised that Her Lordship was willing to destroy the inhabitants. As if she could have let them live—operational security demanded their lives. And as if their being unarmed was a fact worth considering. It's as if the Jedi preach how low the Sith are, yet expect a higher standard of action from them.

Ridiculous.

"Surely you've told them?" Her Lordship inquired of the Jedi, ignoring Gregor's question.

"So it _is_ about Jaesa," Parvan said, her lined face clouding as she studied Her Lordship, all fire and darkness, capability and strength.

"Very much so," Her Lordship answered calmly.

The Jedi ignited his lightsaber, a quick gesture, a nervous gesture, like flicking out a claw, as if it ought to frighten or intimidate Her Lordship… or bolster his own sense of security.

Her Lordship didn't flinch, didn't adjust her footing, didn't give any indication the Jedi had done anything worth more than simply noticing.

The Willsaam couple, at Parvan's direction, took a few steps back, seeking to give the Jedi elbow room.

"Please, no more bloodshed!" Gregor bleated, holding up his hands placatingly. "If there's something you want from us, I'm willing to listen!"

"Gregor," his wife said softly. "The only thing this Sith wants from us is our lives."

Her Lordship chuckled at that. "Give the woman a prize. It must be you from whom Jaesa gets her Force sensitivity."

Her Lordship seemed to compress, a movement almost like relaxing but which ended in tension. I don't think anyone who didn't know her, who hadn't watched her jump from at-rest to full-action would notice.

I readied myself, re-placing all the people in the room again before picking my targets and assigning the order in which to take them.

Her Lordship did not spring forward as the woman babbled to her. That can only mean Her Lordship derives information, real information, from the conversation. And yet, it's only about the daughter's role…

…but Her Lordship has expressed an interest in obtaining the girl for herself, to turn the Padawan to the Dark Side and bring her into the fold. It makes the girl less a threat to Darth Baras in the immediate future…

I recognize a shot being put in a locker for future use. Just in case. It made me wonder how long it would take before Her Lordship and Darth Baras finally turn on one another… and what I'll do when that time comes. The thought ached like a bad tooth. It would be a battle between titans, even though Her Lordship begins at a disadvantage of resources.

I flinched inwardly as, suddenly in the midst of my thoughts and the conversation around me, Her Lordship's holocommunicator went off. It might have been amusing had the timing not been so poor.

She ignored the chirrup.

If it's Duke Kendoh, she'll kill him. Then again, I suspect she's looking for a reason—has orchestrated a reason—to do just that.

Anxiety picked at my nerves.

"You're not going to get that?" the Jedi asked sweetly.

"It will keep," Her Lordship answered darkly.

The call cut out, then started up again. Someone who _really_ wanted to speak to her.

That shortens the list of who it might be. I only hoped it wasn't Darth Baras—as improbable as it was for him to call her in the middle of a task. After all, why should he? He's not one to micromanage.

"Are you certain? It sounds important and I can wait."

It _was_ Darth Baras. Her Lordship tensed out of battle readiness as she regarded his squat metal-faced personage.

I wanted to groan aloud as a cold hand grabbed my innards and _twisted_.

" _Apprentice. So kind of you to take my call._ " The glare was audible.

The Jedi looked surprised by this unexpected address, then smirked like a schoolboy seeing a fellow of whom he was not fond being chewed out by the teacher. I half expected him to pull a face or stick out his tongue. Something juvenile.

"Forgive me, my master, but I shall have to call you back," she declared quite calmly, severing the call before sticking the unit back in its pouch.

The Willsaams were dead before anyone could move; the troopers were all dead by the time Her Lordship staggered the Jedi. She pressed him hard and was done in moments, overwhelming him like a large wave slamming into a small village.

Her visage was white with fury as she drew out the holocom. For a moment she hesitated, pulling herself together, then beckoned me closer to observe the conversation. She took another moment to compose herself then exhaled and opened a link to Darth Baras.

" _I hope your explanation is_ _compelling_ _, apprentice,_ " he declared darkly.

"Pardon me, master, but I believed you might prefer the Willsaam family dead before I reported in," she answered courteously. If she was nervous, uneasy, anything, it didn't show in her words, her tone, her posture.

" _So, they_ _are_ _dead, then_?" Baras asked, his tone evening out.

Her Lordship padded over to the corpses, adjusting the unit so Baras lost sight of her but had a good look at the corpses of Jaesa Willsaam's parents. "Quite dead, my lord."

" _Then it seems my suspicions are unfounded,"_ Baras answered, giving the impression of setting aside whatever punishment he had in hand should it be necessary to employ it.

"Suspicions? Cast by whom? What were you told?" Her Lordship asked, but I thought she rather suspected who the rumormonger was. Her bad mood seemed to evaporate in light of the hope of a Baras-issued reason to destroy the man. After all, if he lied about her to her master—which could have resulted in her death had Baras not been a cautious sort, not prone to rash reactions—it counts as a personal attack. Those are something no Sith can endure without reciprocity at risk of others trying the same tactic.

" _Duke Kendoh contacted me with an update on your progress. Unfortunately, these corpses allay only part of my concerns._ "

Her Lordship returned herself as the focus of her holocom's capture. "Tell me what that _maggot_ said," Her Lordship spat the word as if it was acid. In a fair galaxy it would have burned a hole in the floor wherever it landed.

Baras chuckled to see her ire. He probably assumed the same thing I did: the Duke just lied his way into a coffin. " _Firstly that you've been busying yourself with personal exploits and disregarding my mission… though that seems to be false enough._ "

"And?"

" _And that you set an explosion that killed several Thul dignitaries._ "

" _Why_ would I do something that damages an Imperial ally in that fashion?" Her Lordship demanded.

…no comment…

" _That's not what happened? Shouldn't surprise me. Finally, he said you had the general of Organa's army at your mercy and that you spared her—suggesting that you are a traitor._ "

Her Lordship turned, shoving the holocom so I appeared abruptly in the line of capture. It also served to hide the expression that crossed her face, a homicidal flash that said just how much the accusation of being a _traitor_ incensed her. "Quinn is still alive. How could that woman be also?"

The implication being, of course, that a patriot like me wouldn't just stand for the General being allowed to go about her anti-Empire business. The suggestion of treason seemed to offend her more than the knowledge that the Duke had capitalized on her mission.

" _Ah, Quinn._ "

"My lord." I inclined my head, nerves beginning to tingle unpleasantly.

Baras was silent for a moment, then nodded. " _I see. My susceptibility to Duke Kendoh's accusations does seem quite foolish given the weight of evidence._ "

No Sith would just assume it was idle gossip or slander; all present knew that.

" _Apparently the Duke has taken it upon himself to slander you. I have no further use for him. Punish him, if you like. If it were me… he would pay_ _severely_ ," Baras declared silkily.

Her Lordship's smile blossomed across her sweaty face, her already bright eyes glittering. "I'll handle it, my lord," she assured him, that catlike grin lighting her features.

" _Enjoy the rest of your time on Alderaan. I shall contact you soon._ "

"Enjoy my time," Her Lordship growled once Baras severed the call, bristling her dislike of this planet. She huffed a sigh, then seemed to wipe away her anger as well as the perspiration on her face. "Well, Quinn. It seems we have something to look forward to."

Well, _she_ might look forward to killing the Duke.

"Have you any preference in the matter?" she asked solicitously as we strolled out of the castle as though she were the legal owner and not an armed intruder.

"Something quick and ignominious, my lord," I answered blandly. "He's not worth more than the barest minimum of your time, to say nothing of your effort." He truly isn't… and my eyes slid to make sure the bandages around her middle didn't show signs of blood seeping from a reopened wound.

"Still worried about that slash?" she asked as she fingered the bandage, suggesting I hadn't been as subtle as I thought.

Guilty as charged.

"It is my duty to ensure you remain fighting fit."

She paused, as if teetering on telling me something… but then she shook her head with a sigh almost indulgent. "Let's get out of here and I'll let you fuss to your heart's content. Kendoh isn't going anywhere."

Now or ever.

 **Interlude: Jaesa**

The Captain paused in his telling, as if to see how a picture of my parents' deaths affected me. If he'd been concerned he would have skipped over it, but I was glad he didn't. It was good to know my parents hadn't suffered overmuch, that Her Lordship had been merciful to them and that someone other than herself could perceive that mercy.

I nodded for him to continue, casting a few dark thoughts in the direction of Baras and Karr… and then wondering if I should. After all, without their bickering I might never have come under Her Lordship's tutelage. I'd still be out of contact with my parents (almost the same as losing them) and unhappy.

No. I'm grateful to Her Lordship. Karr… and, to be fair, my parents… would have used me. Baras would have killed me. The only one in this whole mess who really cared about _me_ was Her Lordship. For that, I owe her _everything_.

 **Alderaan, Part V**

"My lord," I frowned. True to her word, she'd gone to the nearest semblance of a medical bay and plopped down in a chair before giving me a teasing look of mock contrition for the carelessness that ended in such an injury. It was rather spoiled by her smirk as humor reasserted itself now that the focus for combat was no longer required.

"Yes, Quinn?" she asked sweetly as I examined the wound.

It was better-healed than it ought to have been, which led me to believe she'd performed some strange physiological manipulation to accelerate the process. I didn't know _Sith_ could do that. Perhaps it's an ability any Force user can learn, something independent of which Order they serve.

"I'm afraid this is going to scar."

"Good."

I blinked at this, then looked up from the healing slash. "Good?" I repeated.

"Yes. It was a good lesson, one I should remember as I advance," she mused.

"Is that why…" The question died, clipped off but not soon enough. The scarring on her body had caught my attention again. With that attention came the desire to trace the white marks with my fingers.

"Curious about my scars, are you?" she asked, with a tone suggesting she would answer if I asked. "I don't blame you. They are rather unsightly." A fact which caused her no concern whatever, to judge by her tone.

I took the bait. "…how did it happen?"

She fingered one of the marks. "A beast on Korriban decided to do a jig on someone who made a fool's mistake. It was some time before I could get it properly treated. Some of the partially closed wounds tore back open. Hence," she added, "why I'm so amenable to letting you have your way with me just now." She grinned at me, orange eyes glittering.

I exhaled sharply as she chuckled.

Having a Sith's attention is an uncomfortable thing. One never really forgets the rumors about their depravity and sadism, their disregard for partners. Her Lordship never struck me as being of that sort, but one never truly forgets… and that, specifically regarding Her Lordship, creates a certain degree of curiosity.

One never forgets that she is Sith, the social elite, beautiful and deadly. I would prefer not to watch her grow bored with me.

Still… it was hard not to smile and I wasn't successful in not doing so. "You're incorrigible, my lord."

"Oh no. Simply persistent."

It was only once I deemed the injury as well-treated as I could manage—and still let it scar, per her ridiculous preference—that I realized she'd been waiting for me to tell her I wasn't interested, that she should back off or give up. That I didn't want to play her game.

In retrospect, it was so obvious… what does it say that it took me so long to figure it out?

 **Alderaan, Part VI**

Her Lordship entered the Duke's office to the same reactions a sudden clap of thunder might produce. She slammed the door open—kicked it open, actually—which made everyone in the room jump. From what I could tell, the Sith had a moment's warning before she actually appeared, for their hands did not jump to weapons nor did weapons jump to hands. Rather, hands already strayed towards weapons strayed away as a sense of anticipation filled the air.

She was, after all, Darth Baras' apprentice and they'd already made it quite clear that crossing her was crossing her master, which was not something they were inclined to do. Not for the Duke anyway, who had gone to no lengths to secure the goodwill of his protectors.

"Duke Kendoh," she snapped, her voice hard and driving. Had it been a physical force it would have slammed him up against a wall and held him there.

"Ah… Lady Sith…" the Duke chuckled nervously.

"Don't sit there whinnying at me like that," she said, pointing one of her unignited lightsabers towards him. The dramatic effect she achieved with such a simple gesture—one she's used more than once—was never amusing, never overly theatrical. It was simply punctuation to her words and seemed entirely natural. "You told Darth Baras I murdered your fellow Thuls, then you accused me of treason." The words sliced like scalpels.

The Sith present gave no indication that these events were news to them.

"Oh… you… you heard about that, did you? How awkward for me…" the Duke seemed to wilt as Her Lordship towered over him, a spire of flame, darkness and deadly promise.

I didn't think for a second I was the only one in the room who appreciated the sight.

"Let-let me explain…" the Duke entreated.

Her Lordship did not answer—which told everyone but the Duke these were his last words and they had no chance of swaying her to mercy—which the Duke, in his folly, took as permission to plead his cause.

"I knew some of my fellows would be caught in the blast… I just took my chance to eliminate them!" He tried to paint it as an emulation of Sith games and failed.

Her Lordship ignited her offhand lightsaber, the hum of it filling the room.

The Duke's eyes fixed on the glowing blade that edged Her Lordship's pale flesh in red tones that seemed to accentuate the paleness the Dark Side had marked her with. "I, ah… had-had company when Darth Baras called and I had to keep my fellow Thuls blind to my maneuvering…." He twirled his finger nonsensically in weak little circles.

"That is a _lie_ ," FimmRess snapped, stepping out of place to address Her Lordship. It was hard to tell if his tone held eager savagery or simple excitement. Maybe it was both. "He contacted Darth Baras himself, alone."

Her Lordship cocked her head. "Did he, indeed?"

"The fool didn't think about _our_ being present," FimmRess supplied, indicating himself and his comrades who nodded in affirmation.

"My, my," she purred softly, returning her attention to the Duke, igniting her other lightsaber. "You do seem to be in a spot of trouble, my dear Duke."

The Duke swallowed, his complexion ashen, the wrinkles in his face deepening, the mustache on his lip quivering as sweat began to break out on his skin. His death _would_ be quick and ignominious. The run-up to it, however, would not. This was no towering temper with which she would flatten him. This was something colder, stronger, deeper, a true rage she would plunge into him like a dagger repeatedly before she finally gave in and killed him.

I had to wonder how much was for her benefit and how much was catering to the Sith in the room. As I considered FimmRess' expression, I decided it was a little for her and a lot for them. She was enjoying making the Duke squirm. The Sith certainly enjoyed watching her make the Duke squirm.

"I-I-I…." the Duke chattered, pushing himself back in his chair while glancing sidelong at his Sith, all of whom had eyes for Her Lordship… even if part of that attention was just so they didn't have to look at the Duke. "I only wanted Baras to know I was looking out for him!" the Duke said, an edge of panic in his voice, a flush suffusing his face.

He should know, bawling in front of her Lordship won't help. It will simply disgust her further.

"It was harmless! I knew you would succeed and all Baras would care about was that!" His eyes flicked to her lightsabers as she raised from at-rest to readiness. It was like watching a cobra flare its hood. "Please… please, don't kill me…" Then, without waiting to see if she would respond he twisted in his chair to regard FimmRess, whose attention remained pointedly fixed on Her Lordship. "FimmRess! You are assigned to me! If she attacks you must—"

"I have already told you we _will not_ cross this Sith," FimmRess declared flatly, making a slicing motion with his hand. "If she decides you die… then you're dead."

The words seemed to strike the Duke like blows to the face. A palpable sense of excitement, of eagerness, suffused the air, radiated by the various Sith. Her Lordship was ready for the kill. The Sith watching were eager to see her kill. It was impossible to tell if it was based off her natural appeal or their own distaste for their assignment. Probably both.

I myself have admitted that watching Her Lordship engaged in violence is far more fascinating than it has any right to be. And I'm _not_ Sith.

"Don't worry, friends," Her Lordship purred, "your servitude to this… worm… ends today."

FimmRess' mouth twisted into a lopsided smile. "It will be a relief to be done with this assignment. Do you require any assistance?"

"That's kind of you, but no. Simply watch… and enjoy."

It was quick. The Duke tried to take refuge under his desk—mostly because his muscles failed, leaving him soiled and slack, therefore he _slid_ out of his chair to disappear beneath the heavy article. Her Lordship followed him, resulting in a brief scuffle as the Duke tried to keep the desk between them. She pounced as soon as she could, towering over him, weapons ready to bring death in one quick motion.

The Duke's last words were as pathetic as the rest of his life. "You… were supposed to protect me…" he whimpered, getting to his knees.

She snapped herself around, the spin accelerating the strike and passing the blade through the Duke at an angle that severed him into two halves: his head and one arm, then the rest of him. Her robes flared out around her. As one who has seen her in combat many times, I could tell she'd put a little theatricality into the decapitation.

"The brevity of that display was cruel," FimmRess declared bemusedly.

"But the reek is such that I wouldn't like to keep you in it." She shook her head as one of the other Sith opened a window, letting a draft of cool Alderaanian air into the room.

 **Conclusion**

I sat back in my chair, considering everything the Captain said and everything he had not. When he spoke of FimmRess, I had the distinct sense that he worried—or had at the time. "Did FimmRess call upon Her Lordship after that?" I asked.

The Captain's aura lurched, then smoothed out. "He did."

By which I take it he called upon her and she kept things strictly courteous. He's a funny man, the Captain. He wants her at a distance but at the same time he doesn't want her too far away. Maybe he really _is_ a masochist.

"From what I gather, his master on the Dark Council received quite the favorable report about Her Lordship."

One can never have too many people singing one's praises. "Thank you, Captain, for taking the time to share all this with me."

And for not boiling it down to six words: she came, she saw, she devastated.


	11. Chapter 11

**On Korriban**

Korriban was a red ball of a world so steeped in the Force that I felt it even before Her Lordship and I landed there. On the surface, the Force popped and fizzled, oscillating in turbulent drifts like so much churned-up air, charged and strangely ominous. Threatening. A dry static-y feeling seemed to hang about, playing across my skin.

The air itself was less pleasant than the crawl of the Force across my senses. Dry and full of grit, the sand was finer than that of Tatooine. The temperatures were more moderated than that world… but as in any desert I'd ever visited, the place just leeched the moisture right out of me. Before we even reached the Academy walls, Her Lordship and I were both streaked with the red sand.

It struck me, as the guards nodded in recognition of Her Lordship, that it was not as _bright_ as it should have been. Rather, the place seemed shrouded in a sort of baleful red twilight half-light that was easy on the eyes but grating on the nerves. As if the planet itself regarded us all through half-closed eyes, a great creature feigning sleep before it gobbled up its next meal.

Well, it wouldn't gobble _me_.

…or so I told myself.

The Academy itself was just plain _cold_. The air was a bit moister than outside, but the temperature was low, something 'comfortable' to a Dromund Kaas native. The transition made me nauseous. Nauseous and clammy-feeling.

In the cold, dark and imposing building, I found myself feeling very small and very… obvious. Sith acolytes filtered everywhere, most of them stained with the sands outside, most of them with grim expressions. I had to wonder how much of that was Sith training, the stress of training, and how much was just being stuck in this cold, imposing fortress.

Because the Academy did remind me of a fortress glowering out over the Valley of the Dark Lords. Unlike a fortress though, the Academy offered no safety, no security, for those living in it. Quite the opposite: it was probably more dangerous inside the Academy than out of it.

I got looks, partly because it was clear that Her Lordship was definitely an authority figure, even if she wasn't anyone's _direct_ authority. People cleared out of her way when she walked. She didn't seem to notice.

I studied her as we passed through the Academy, the sedate walk, the unhurriedness of it, the good posture and the sense of being a large water-creature moving through its natural environment. I wanted that, to have the world bend to me not because I made a fuss but because the world knew it was in its best interests to, at the very least, not attract notice. Her Lordship didn't need to tell others she was powerful; she simply _was_. Anyone with the weakest sense of such things would know it, whether they chose to acknowledge it or not.

 **On the Valley of the Dark Lords**

The Valley of the Dark Lords, upon which the Academy looked out, ought to have been pillaged and gutted centuries ago. Apparently, modern Sith were still turning things up, still finding places no one knew about (or, if they did, had sealed back up and forgot to put up 'do not enter' signs to keep out the foolish).

It wasn't the fetch-and-carry missions Her Lordship kept coming up with for me that had my attention—although I gave them their due of that. If the Academy had an aura of being ominous and imposing, the Tombs themselves had dark auras all their own. Like, you half expect to run into the ghost of the tomb's owner demanding sourly (or violently) _why_ you're tracking up his house and disturbing his sleep.

On Tatooine, during the Demon's Blood ritual, I'd perceived the Cavern of Visions as being 'wet,' not realizing that the sensation of moisture in the air was an accumulation of the Force and imprints therein of the hundreds or thousands of supplicants who had completed the ritual.

That in mind, I considered each tomb as I went into it, feeling out for the divides between sensations that were purely physical and those that existed within the Force. Part of me suspected this was something Her Lordship would have expected me to do, in addition to the task she'd set me. The Force was a sense, not 'a power' and I needed to learn to treat it that way—for my own sake. Otherwise, I'd stumble through life, half in and half out as it were. That made me weak, easy to pick off.

So I moved through brooding darkness that seemed to grow darker and deeper as I moved further into any one of the old Sith Lords' resting places. Cobwebs of sensation, dry and rasping, skittered across my skin; the occasional sound like a threatening breath taken sounded near my ear. I never actually saw a ghost, but I fully expected to.

The fear I had to master on that account—because what was I supposed to do against a ghost if I saw one?—was great. The actual darkness, the sounds made by acolytes elsewhere, adding their own sneaking shuffles to the ambience, were paranoia-inducing. All I could do was bight my lip, keep my lightsaber in my hand, and bear it.

 **The Trial of Blood and Bone**

"Come here, child," a voice, dry and raspy as the air in the last tomb, called softly to me. I stopped, turning to find a small, withered, wizened old crone regarding me. Her stiff grey hair was bundled around her thin face, bright red eyes seemed to look through me. Her flesh hung from her bones in soft folds, as if she'd lost an appreciable amount of weight at one point and never gained it back. "Come here."

I obeyed. Her Lordship might have clout, but she'd made it clear that unless I had an exceptionally good reason to disobey, I was to defer to an Overseer if an Overseer required my attention.

The withered woman regarded me, then nodded. "You're not an acolyte," she mused, "but you are here to explore the Academy."

"That's so, my lord. My master wishes it."

"And who is your master?"

Unease wriggled through my stomach. "Lord Hellanix… or Balanchine-Renault." I wasn't entirely clear whether lords among Sith went by their first names, last names, or assumed identities. It seemed to be a complete mixed bag, totally dependent on personal preference.

"Ah, yes," the woman nodded, her mouth twisting into a thin line. "And are you happy with your master, child?"

There was a joke, but I wasn't getting it. "I'm quite satisfied, my lord."

She chuckled at this, nodded. "Well, I offered this opportunity to your master, why shouldn't I offer it to her student? There was great power in her… and I sense power in you."

"But I can say no?" I asked dubiously.

"You could. But this is an offer I make once and only once. Walk away now, and you lose the opportunity forever." She crossed her skinny arms, still giving me that look, as though she could see through me.

I shivered, then poked the Force hanging around her; it was like giant leathery wings, and there was something… else… something I'd never encountered before but it wasn't something I could identify. Like but unlike when I described the power, the Force, looming over Her Lordship like a rancor on a ribbon. This woman's strength, like that of Her Lordship, dwarfed her physical stature. "Very well. What is this opportunity?"

"To know the world that gave birth to the Sith, of course. And as you are Sith yourself—or getting there…" she waved an expressive hand, a bony appendage that made me think of old tales of witches.

She waited until my silence indicated she had my undivided attention. If she really administered this test to Her Lordship… well. I can't see how undergoing it myself would hurt me… unless I botch it, of course.

"I am Overseer Ragate, a keeper of the old ways." She adjusted the fall of her robes. "You have potential, but have not yet come into your own."

"I have had _so_ many people clamoring about my _potential_ ," I answered, trying not to sneer.

"As well they should," Ragate agreed bluntly. "And just as well that you are aware of it."

This was unanswerable.

"Ability untested is as nothing. The Trials administered here tell one that one is most likely ready to function as Sith in the wider galaxy. My trial gives only insight."

That explained why Her Lordship underwent it voluntarily. Insight was insight and all insight was valuable—even if you learned something you would rather not. That was just the risk one took. "And what is this trial?"

"The Rite of Blood and Bone. A ritual performed beyond this doorway." She indicated the sealed door behind her.

She just… what? Stands here waiting for an acolyte to notice her? Or picking them at random from the crowd?

"It is a rite acolytes have participated in for over ten _thousand_ years," she added.

Suddenly… I found myself reminded of Tatooine and the Demon's Blood ritual. Part of me wondered if I were to try it again what I might find… and it was this wondering that left me open to the idea of undergoing whatever Ragate chose to throw at me.

"You have my complete attention, Overseer," I said, bowing my head submissively.

"In the chambers beyond, there is a colony of shyrack. My leather-winged, razor-taloned children and their brood."

I shivered… then, to my surprise, realized what she was doing. It was insidious, a delicate use of the Force that seeded fear and doubt in the mind of the hearer, little waves that lapped so gently, so innocuously against the consciousness even as they laid their poison down. Thus compromised, the test became something beyond simple slaughter.

I felt it first as a creep of unease, mind glittering with sporadic flickers of talons, teeth, and sharp screams, of rending flesh and eyes plucked out.

"They guard a mountain of skulls—an altar to the Academy's failures."

I clenched my teeth as my guts tightened into a hard coil. This is what laymen would call 'a spell'; being aware of it didn't help much. I could almost smell blood under my nose, images of bloody death and mutilated corpses weaving through my mind—my own, if I didn't watch my step. Shyrack are most dangerous when they have weight of numbers but they aren't ever harmless. I can imagine a cocky young Acolyte not realizing what Ragate did do them before letting them undergo the test being torn apart because they were unaware of what went on beneath the skin.

But Her Lordship stresses self-awareness even at—especially at—the deepest levels and fear lives at a very deep level within the psyche. It was strange to feel so well-versed in something—even if, I don't doubt, I was only scratching the surface of the topic.

When I looked up from my contemplation of Ragate's middle, I found her watching me with a grim smile and burning-coal eyes, leaving me with the impression she was gauging my responses, feeling at me to see how I coped. "You must reach the bones before proceeding." Her voice painted it as a distance insurmountable by all but the strongest, the fiercest, the most cunning. Her words touched on perception, leaning on personal expectation to change personal perception—her technique subtly turned the acolyte's mind upon itself.

I evened my breathing, touched the fear she'd seeded and found it controllable… but the way it knotted suggested that keeping it controlled would be an active process, not something I could just box up or put aside. I forced the tightening muscles in my shoulders and torso to relax, touched the doubt that accompanied the fear and found it likewise controllable.

I regarded her once I had fear and doubt collared, reminding myself that distance could only be affected by perception if I let it. Logically, there's only so much room in this Academy. I knew her trick; as with 'magic tricks', that was the first step in seeing through it, in rendering it ineffectual.

"You said it was a rite of _blood_ and bone. Where's the blood?" I asked in my most confident businesslike manner.

Ragate's smile became that much fiercer. "I do like you, child. Clever, cruel…" she nodded her approval as she trailed off into a hum of anticipation, like she couldn't wait to see me at work. It made me more nervous… but they were just the nerves of doing something new and dangerous. "I have your answer: you must claim a skull from the mountain and return to the antechamber. Soak the skull in the blood pool. Then bring it to me."

"That's it?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"That's it. So simple, is it not?" There was something of the crocodile behind her soft wrinkles, the almost benign smile, something I knew instinctively not to ignore but not to let get to me either. It was a fine line to walk; I'll bet the rest of the test is like that: walking one fine line after another.

"We'll see," I answered sweetly, turning to face the door and checking the fear, the doubt, the unease, the preconceptions she'd been trying to condition me with. Unlike a wound when worried, my worrying seemed to keep these inhibitors at bay, kept them from getting a foothold.

"I'd wish you luck, but luck scarcely matters," Ragate said softly before the doors sealing the trial space snapped closed.

I found myself in a long, narrow space which really did make distances deceptive. The first chamber held a basin of blood. The odor of it was nauseating and hung in the air which—I realized—being warmer held the reek all the more securely than the chill of the rest of the Academy would. In fact, the change in temperature and humidity made the place feel stifling; it was suddenly so hard to get my breath, I didn't think there would be any 'getting used to it.'

It's a game. It's a trick. It's all in my head.

I took a deep breath, doing my best to ignore the choking odor of blood which became, slowly, scented with death. I'd never smelled death before… but I knew what it was instinctively. By now, I didn't know how much of my discomfort was Ragate's doing and how much was my own mind turning upon itself. Sweat broke out in large droplets to slide sinisterly down my skin.

I frowned at the pool, at its simplicity of form—little more than a square ornamental basin, three feet on a side and not likely that deep—wondering where all the blood came from. It had to come from somewhere. Well, it wouldn't come from _me_ : no shyrack could be as fierce as Her Lordship. I've fought her both in reality and on the training floor.

This was just blood; while it might look fresh it had nothing to do with me. It might as well be smelly red water as far as I was concerned.

But I did consider it, consider its placement in the room. This is a trial of blood and bone at the Sith Academy, a trial offered by an easy-to-miss woman at an easy-to-miss door—one who had called out to me as she had not to others. This was something important.

Moreover, something from my Jedi days echoed back to me: fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to the Dark Side.

My brow crinkled. It's true enough, but not as bad as they make it sound… which is odd, since that implies Ragate's manipulation grants the acolyte tools with which to face their test…

…but only if those tools can be recognized for what they are, can be overcome and made to serve. Her Lordship's emphasis of self-awareness in my training took away the wonder if I was overanalyzing, looking for things that weren't really there. Self-awareness shows the trap Ragate laid—the pre-ritual conditioning—leaving the participant to assess, to combat with accuracy what's been done and what she must face.

I'll ask Her Lordship about this later, but right now it feels like my education must have made a jump forward.

This in mind, I studied the dark floor, cocking my head. The lighting was strange, diffuse even, though it allowed me to see quite clearly. I started forward, stopping at the lip of the pool, watching the light play on the liquid.

Where are the shyrack? If I haven't seen them by now, they're waiting—possibly Ragate can affect them through the Force. If so, they're waiting for me to bring back the skull before attacking. So why not make me fight in both directions? Unless it is to see which acolytes submit to cockiness, to foolish pride and a sense of self-superiority that hasn't been earned.

This is a right of blood and bone, tempered by fear and doubt.

Doubt kept me still.

' _Caution is for worms like you._ ' Her Lordship's words from the Captain's account of Alderaan came back to me.

' _Be brave, Jaesa._ '

I could skirt the basin; I won't smell like a wounded animal if I do. It's cautious, not unwise… and wading through a basin of blood is just gross….

Refusal of fear—of caution prompted by a fear I might not feel as strongly if I hadn't been seeded there by a woman accomplished in doing so—led me to walk straight through the basin of blood. It's just blood. Nothing scary in and of itself.

It was only knee deep, strangely warm, literally thicker than water, and walking through it had completely predictable results. The sense of being filthy, contaminated even, reminded me to be alert—the blood would make my footing slippery at first, the smell would probably draw the shyrack all the more fiercely when they came because I would smell injured.

These ruminations brought me to the narrow hallway leading up to the smaller room where the skulls were piled.

There were _a lot_ of them, each one carefully stripped down to the simple skull, lacking the lower jaw. There was nothing frightening about a skull in and of itself, except the chill of unease at seeing so many. Ragate called it an altar, but it was more like an ossuary because of its size and contents: skulls lined the back wall, the walls to either side of me, and created a large trapezoidal pile in the center of the room which, I didn't doubt required upkeep. I wondered how deep the skulls were stacked, how many layers upon layers I would go through before I found the Academy's actual wall.

She'd been specific: take a skull from the pile itself. She was _specific_.

I pulled a skull from a corner, careful not to disrupt the overall structure. It gaped at me, eyes sightless and dark, teeth gleaming white against the rest of the bone. There wasn't anything particularly scary about it; it was just a skull, after all. It felt strange in my hand, but I couldn't say how. Nor could I tell whether the sensation was physical or something through the Force—maybe it was both. I'd never handled a skull before.

The chambers and hallway continued playing games with my perception of distance as I headed back. Again, I paused in the chamber of blood, listening, looking for the place from which the shyrack would explode. I'd actually walked over the bottom of the pool of blood coming in; so either there's a grate down there that moves, or there's some kind of perceptual trick to hide the outlets into the room itself.

Given what I've observed and experienced so far, I'm inclined to expect the latter.

Or maybe I'm overthinking. Regardless, if something bad is going to happen—I have that feeling—then it will happen now. I walked up to the edge of the pool, debated, then unclipped my lightsaber from my belt. I'd have to fill the skull one-handed because I _knew_ the ambush was coming. I could _feel_ it.

I also had a couple ideas about it.

My intention had been to wade into the pool again, fill the skull from the middle, and move on. This would be stupid—very theatrical, very mystical, but stupid. Because I knew there were shyrack _somewhere_ , that the blood on my boots had already gotten tacky enough that I wasn't going to slip as easily as if it were fresh, and that I wasn't handy enough with my lightsaber to fumble it into my hands if surprised or startled. I expected the arrival of the shyrak to be startling even if I knew they were coming.

I crouched, lightsaber in hand, skull in the other.

The instant the skull touched the blood, the room exploded with shrieking, winged horrors.

I dropped the skull—I can always fish it out later—then lashed out through the Force. I'm not particularly good with such things, but it was enough to repel the shyrack long enough for me to ignite my lightsaber and fell two before the rest came sweeping back in.

They were fast, darting, their leathery wings obscured my vision and Ragate wasn't lying about their talons. More than once I yelped as the bared flesh of my arms shredded.

But I wasn't limited to a lightsaber; time spent with Her Lordship already taught me waving it around ineffectually was just stupid. I knew the Force was there if I could just pull it into expression, and the only thing I could think of that would help with so many aggressors all at once exploded from my hand, raised in a warding gesture, in a crackling net of purple light.

My hair began to stand up on end; I knew the first metal thing I touched would be a painful experience. But once I'd forced the lightning into being it stayed manifested until, as if someone flipped a switch, I was alone, just throwing lightning into an empty room. There were several shyrack corpses laying on the floor… but far, far fewer than there should have been.

My breathing came hoarse and heavy as I examined my cuts. Those were real enough… but it seemed as though not all of the shyrack had been real—something tricked out of my own mind, made manifest by my own fear, paranoia, and preparedness.

The scratches were deep, but I could deal with them. The robe-wrapped leathers I wore showed damage but had done their jobs of protecting my flesh. I fished out the skull, waded into the pool, filled it, then headed for the doors leading into the hall.

The doors opened for me and my bloody footprints to reveal Ragate watching for me.

"Very good," she noted, regarding me from my toes to the crown of my head and back down again. "Very good indeed."

I wordlessly held out the skull—wordlessly since I was trying not to breathe too much. The smell of blood in the trial chambers was thick and mind-clogging, but now that I was out in fresh air, which felt so much thinner… I looked like a murder victim and smelled like a butcher's block. Not pleasant.

She chuckled, taking the skull. "Now, I shall look to see your nature written in crimson stains… and possibly a glimpse of destiny…" She rolled the blood around in the skull, peering at it.

As she studied the grotesque thing, my head began to clear… and of more than just the overpowering warm blood-scented atmosphere of the trial chambers. The fear, the doubt, all of it began to dissipate slowly.

Ragate's gaze grew unfocused; when she spoke her voice had an oddly detached tone. "You will come to a crossroads and a choice will be made: you will either die or you shall seek Light. You will either fail your master utterly… or reflect luster upon her. The choice is yours." Ragate blinked suddenly, her expression growing less hazy. "That is all I have to say."

I bit the inside of my lip. Trust such a vision to be all cryptic and impossible to figure out. I didn't like the sound of it.

"Well, now, you've completed the trial. Off you go." Ragate returned to studying the skull, ignoring me completely.

With a sigh, I stomped up to Her Lordship's borrowed space. It should have been funny that the only looks I got from fellow acolytes were either rueful (doubtless those who shared the experience) or puzzled.

"Well, well, it seems you met Ragate," Her Lordship smirked as I entered the room, her orange eyes taking me in from top to toe in all my gruesome glory.

"I did," I agreed with another sigh, aware that my mind must have been in a weird place to be willing to get myself so bloody and messed up. Suddenly, I felt in desperate need of a shower—not a sonic shower, a real shower with real water.

"I'm glad she sought you out. Did you find her trial enlightening?"

Disturbing more like, and more so as time goes on.

I shifted from foot to foot. "…it's seeing the future. It's never enlightening until it's happened. _Then_ it all makes sense," I answered truthfully.

Her Lordship laughed. "That is the way of it."

"…is she accurate?" I asked, frowning. "And… and should I be telling you what she told me?"

"You needn't if you choose not to. I found her to be quite accurate. After all, she's the one who told me you required rescuing." My mouth dropped open, and Her Lordship's expression slipped into an easy smile. "Oh, yes. Ragate told me about you—in uncertain terms that made sense only as time went on—long before Baras became aware of you. Don't expect her scrying to be literal and I think you won't be disappointed when you realize things are beginning to crystalize… unless she gave you bad news, in which case I'm very sorry indeed."

"Not bad news, no," I mused, beginning to pace. "She said I would stand at a crossroads… that I'd have to choose between dark and light."

"I will give you some advice: don't try figuring out what that means and making expectations. Put her words somewhere safe, but put them away and don't brood on them."

"Expectations create blind spots… I expected a lot of shyrack and saw a lot… but there were no more than a half dozen or so," I mused, eyeing her through my lashes to see how she took it.

"Exactly the problem I had," Her Lordship said, getting up from her chair and coming around her desk. "Do they not teach students to heal their wounds?" she asked, frowning at my arms before taking one and examining the injuries.

"…they do, I just never got very good," I answered ruefully.

"Practice. Before you go get cleaned up, I want to see these well underway. Although not formally taught at the Academy, a smart acolyte will learn how to patch him- or her-self up. How else do you think you rarely see acolytes sporting bad injuries which you _know_ must happen around here?"

That's… a very good point.

It also means Acolytes are encouraged to figure out how to use the Force for themselves as soon as possible rather than wait to be taught. I can see how that would make them inventive, more unique than Jedi are, one to another.


	12. Chapter 12

**A Tale: Hella**

I regarded Her Lordship as we stood in the airlock, shaking Korriban's red dust from our clothes. "Well, what did you think?" Her Lordship asked as we passed into the _Astral Blight._ We'd spent a week on that red little planet, with me running errands for her that took me hither and thither all throughout the Valley of the Dark Lords—and somewhat beyond.

I'd left bodies in my wake—which still left me feeling freaked out and a little sick—even acquired a few visible injuries, but nothing like the scars of claw marks that wrapped themselves around her hip and side. Not for the first time I wondered about them, and how little they seemed to bother her. If I was scarred like that, I don't think I could bear anyone to see them.

I'd learned to appreciate the power the Force sometimes exerts on a place. With Korriban, it's not so much that you _notice it_ —not to its full extent, anyway—right off. You definitely notice it once you're away from it though, like having a great pressure against one's senses suddenly relieved. "I can see why the Sith produce superior apprentices to those of the Jedi."

Unlike the Jedi, who have three steps of rank (Padawan, Knight, and Master) the Sith have four (Acolyte, Apprentice, Lord and Darth), allowing a more precise delineation for ability and responsibility. The only caveat to this was that 'apprentice' was both a rank and a designation, which might cause confusion for outsiders. I've noticed that, in speech, one can usually tell the difference.

While Jedi eventually leave the service of the master(s) training them, Sith tended to be referred to as So-and-So's apprentice as long as they served a particular master—hence why Lord Hellanix (Balanchine-Renault if she needed to throw her family's weight around) was still Darth Baras' apprentice, despite having gained a formal title and left the rank of apprentice behind.

Personally, I didn't understand that: an apprentice _learns_ from her master, but Darth Baras didn't seem to be the teaching sort.

"Ah! You're back!" Tuvi trilled. "But you're so early, Mistress! Lunch is barely begun!"

"Thank you, Tuvi. I believe, however, that Jaesa and I should freshen up a bit. The Korriban sands get _everywhere_ if not dealt with quickly. And, of course, equipment must be tended. So you see, you really have plenty of time to finish."

The droid warbled its relief before disappearing into the galley where he began clanking and rattling implements about with hurried vigor.

I agreed with Her Lordship about the Korriban sand; it reminded me forcibly of the Demon's Blood ritual on Tatooine as I washed the sand/sweat coating from my skin. I still smelled blood, several days after Ragate's trial, in spite of my efforts to get rid of it. Showering on Korriban… well. The place has such a baleful presence—maybe actual acolytes get used to it—you just don't want to be vulnerable any longer than you have to be. Being naked feels pretty vulnerable in a place like that. I actually showered fully dressed yesterday, then retreated to Her Lordship's space with my dripping leathers to clean them properly.

It was only once Her Lordship and I were ensconced in the cargo bay with our equipment laid out that I brought up the question chewing at me. Leathers and the like need special attention if they are to stay functional, and although having cleaned them on Korriban I hadn't been able to actually care for them. "My lord? Will you… tell me about your time on Korriban?" I thought it said something that I didn't wait for her to acknowledge my request for her attention before asking what I wanted to ask.

Her Lordship studied me thoughtfully. She's not given to dragging out stories of conquest and domination—I've had to go to Vette and the Captain for those—but this time she simply shrugged before going back to her work. "Very well. It will, perhaps, give you insight and access to details that should not go overlooked but which do not, in themselves, consist of enough for a proper lesson. Listen, then…"

 **Korriban, Part I**

For the duration of Hella's account it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Hella's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

Two months on Korriban served no other purpose than to sharpen my claws. Apparently all those years studying under _Dahdee_ were more beneficial than I gave them credit for being—and I gave them quite a bit of credit. Korriban's bloody outdoor light gave way to the stark gloom of the Academy. The cooler, moister air than that outside clung to my skin, coaxing out sweat, leaving my cheeks feeling overly warm and the rest of my skin cold—an unpleasant contrast to my core temperature.

The training blade at my back still felt alien compared to the lightsaber I'd used at home, but the rules were clear: all things in due course, unless one was killed by one's peers or the power plays and games of those in authority. There was quite a bit of collateral damage in the course of Korriban affairs.

The system was a wasteful one, but there was a certain wisdom to it when considering generally: strength was fostered. The problem therein—as _Dahdee_ would have said—was that there are differing sorts of strength. Often those who did not fit the mold Korriban sought to cast failed, mostly because they were unable to capitalize on the strength of the unique.

It wasn't my dilemma. I'd learned the foundation of the Sith arts at my father's knee. What he didn't teach me about backstabbing and subtlety came from Mother. Thus, I'd avoided those conflicts I couldn't do anything about while plowing through the rest until the majority of the Acolytes withdrew to give me breathing room.

Not that I expected, for a moment, this courtesy implied a lack of plotting. Far from it. The sea backs away before a tidal wave strikes, after all.

It was this effectiveness over a short period of time—never mind that I was much older than most Acolytes—that attracted the attention of one Overseer Tremel. My last Overseer was a particularly vicious ethnic Sith called Moria—she was a sarcastic, sadistic bitch and I liked her as much as it's possible to like someone who would gladly see one killed.

When I was brought into the Academy to face trials, my Overseer was changed to this Tremel fellow, who had requested me by name.

He was past middle age, this Overseer, with his leathery face etched into a grim expression. I sensed no extraordinary power from him, so I tentatively assigned him a place in my 'power through others' category. He might _hold_ power but he was not _a power_ in and of himself—not beyond what a typical Overseer wields.

First approximations are useful, but should be left tentative, just in case. It's only through exposure that one learns the truth.

"Ah, you've arrived. Good," he declared as I paid the proper reverence upon being noticed. He had a large office, brightly lit and less forbidding than the rest of the Academy. Although spare, it was certainly comfortable—as comfortable as could be enjoyed before suspicions of weakness, complacency, and stagnation could be encouraged. "As you know, I'm overseer Tremel; for decades I've overseen the trials that prove who is and is not worthy to join the Sith Order. So it is for you: you will either survive and become Sith or… I will be most displeased."

"Yes, Overseer." Even on Korriban, there are forms and etiquettes one might hide behind, paying lip service until one needn't any longer. I was glad, because I wanted to sneer at his remark: _I will be most displeased_. Chances are that if I don't survive and succeed it will be because I am _dead_. No need to worry about his displeasure, then.

His eyes wandered over me, making me wonder if he expected such a mature acolyte instead of a fresh-faced very powerful child. His next words confirmed it: "Now, you are here and ahead of schedule because of me. I expect you to obey."

Obedience goes without saying, particularly with young Acolytes. Unless one can affect defiance without drawing the whole world down on one's head. Some people just need to be killed, high-ranking or otherwise.

I didn't mind being pulled from the pool of Acolytes early. I arrived fully trained, needing only tempering in the fires of the forge that is Korriban… and the stamp on my resume—so to speak—indicating I'd graduated the formal Sith training as opposed to private tutelage.

"You face your trials—you serve me—and I will make you the most powerful acolyte here."

First approximation upheld, then—I don't believe he's in a position to follow through. The question is what he wants me for. Why else would he dangle something like that in front of me, as if I needed incentives to succeed? There's a hook in that bait and I'm not rising to it. Not until I appreciate into what web I've been tossed. "Then we should begin, Overseer. I'm all attention."

"The trials themselves are difficult enough, but they are hardly the worst you must face."

The worst I could face is being killed here. _Dahdee_ would find a way to resurrect me or do something horrible to make me a ghost so he could make me thoroughly aware of _his_ displeasure. His worries me more than that of this past-his-prime Overseer.

I'll enjoy wiping the smile off _Dahdee's_ face by coming out of this place stronger than ever before. He holds certain suspicions I might not be up to it. Of course he does—how can he not, if he wants me to succeed? He knows how far I'd go, in this instance, to spite his expectations. Fortunately or unfortunately, knowing this doesn't really change anything.

"There's an acolyte here named Vemrin. He is your enemy. And he will try to kill you. We must prepare you."

Ah, a pissing contest between Overseers, is it? "Rest easy, Overseer. I shall destroy him."

I didn't say it for dramatic effect but because I _would_. My age is sometimes criticized, but the fact is that it's not a thing out of my favor. The children here lack life experience of any kind; even before the Edicts, many acolytes were bundled willy-nilly to Korriban by parents too pleased to discover their offspring are Sensitive to realize that Sensitivity does not imply capability. Korriban should be reserved for the strong. Weaker Sensitives can be made use of, but not if they are dead.

Don't waste a resource, as _Dahdee_ liked to sum it up.

"With my guidance, someday you'll destroy all your enemies. That practice sword you've arrived with—unacceptable. The blade of lesser acolytes. You need a dominating weapon."

And if I wasn't properly trained, what then? A powerful weapon does not equate to a powerful wielder. An expensive paintbrush did not make me a great artist when I was growing up. I have the feeling these trials are going to be difficult not because they _are_ but because I feel such burgeoning disdain of the one administering them.

 **Korriban, Part II**

The Valley of the Dark Lords is a place only those immediately associated with the Academy go. It's the burial place of Sith like Marka Ragnos, Ajunta Pall, Naga Sadow, and many others. Luminaries of the Sith Order. I found it odd that after centuries the various Tombs still had artifacts and secrets not yet rooted out.

The warblade did not count: it was not an ancient relic, but simply placed in a dangerous location in order to test the would-be owner's strength and resolve. Although it looked old, it really wasn't; just well-used by whichever Acolyte(s) had it before I did.

The Tomb of Ajunta Pall had the 'dominating weapon' I was supposed to retrieve. The Tomb itself was full of k'lor'slugs, nasty creatures, dangerous to the unprepared or unwary, but hardly as menacing as Tremel made them sound. This made sense: a warm-up for the would-be Sith, something to get her feet wet before the real trials commenced.

It was wasted on me. _Dahdee_ didn't limit my education to the training room. We went out into the wet, cold jungles of Dromund Kaas in order to test my skills on the massive, monstrous creatures native to those environs.

The damp air in the Academy left me feeling clammy, musty, and irritable. Not bad things generally speaking, but when undirected the energy was wasted.

"Here, you. Acolyte. Hold on a moment, let me have a look at you."

I stopped as a much younger Acolyte—a strapping figure of a male—stepped out in front of me, scowling. He was accompanied by another much larger (but less intelligent-looking) companion. The Force snapped and tumbled around the smaller of the two but hung lazy and lax, sluggish even, around the bigger one. The latter was nothing like powerful, just strong enough to keep his head above water.

A lord and his toady—or so the dynamic ran.

Since I only had one name for someone who might cause me troubles—Vemrin—I assumed this was him. If this was a pissing contest between Overseers, then it stood to reason that if I knew about Vemrin he knew something about me. A smart man would have made it his business and Sith like to gossip.

"So you're Overseer Tremel's secret weapon."

Vemrin in truth, then.

"Impressive to be sure." Except that his tone was sarcastic as flinty little eyes looked me over.

' _Don't bother getting angry with everyone who is less than polite to you, dahling. Otherwise you won't have time to do anything else! And there are so many more agreeable things to pay attention to.'_ Bless my mother's common sense.

"Afraid the old man waited too late, though. I'm Vemrin, and unlike _you_ I've fought and bled for everything I have." He stepped in close, offensively close. "I _demand_ respect."

He had a point about earning what he had, I'll give him that. But only a fool demands respect rather than proving it's deserved. So far, he's shown me less than nothing: empty bluster without action to back it. _That_ should have been trained out of him long ago. "Show me something worth respecting and perhaps you might get it. Until then: _Step. Back_."

Vemrin stiffened at the weight of command in the words—though nothing of the Force to reinforce them. Slowly he backed away one grudging step. It was only one step, but it was as big as all the world.

"Believe it or not, I'm trying to keep you from getting killed, _friend_ ," he sneered.

"I'm touched by your concern." Vemrin and I exchanged a locked gaze. He was strong, I'll give him that. But he was too used to elbowing his way about when the threat of his thuggish companion didn't discourage trouble… or weaken the resolve of others. It takes time to get over the idea that, unlike with the physical, stature means nothing in terms of the Force. If an acolyte understood this, the thug would be much less intimidating.

This Vemrin, he's got no subtlety, no sense for the nuances, the changes in which can alert the attentive Sith to dangers that might otherwise come as a surprise.

Long ago, I learned to protect myself from the emotions of others; I was always sensitive even for a Force user, and the sensitivity manifested at a very early age. My earliest memory of _Dahdee_ was before he began training me. My governess had someone close to her die, leaving her in a haze of loss and agony beneath the professional face she presented. I remember sitting in his lap, crying into his shoulder, trying to articulate why I was so upset. I remember him whispering in my ear, in my head, teaching me to build the Quiet Place, the place I could retreat to when the agonies, angers… desires… of others became too much. Over the years I established further defenses of my own.

With Vemrin, I moved out of the middle range of bunkers until I could feel just behind his surface, just at the place like the quick of fingernails, just before that place which bleeds when someone successfully sinks in claws. The equivalent of reading lips.

Know thy enemy. Know his motivations and you can point him like a lightsaber. Know his feelings, the true ones at the bottom of the laundry basket, and you can get in his head, under his skin. Once you're there… he's yours to do with as you like. Manipulate. Ruin. Kill.

I had to push back the general distress that welled up: the Academy screamed with fear, anger, and pain as a general thing. It was enough to give me a headache if I wasn't quick. It's ridiculous for a Sith to be so sensitive to other people's emotions. I've never been so grateful for the Quiet Place in all my life.

Vemrin's anger was shaky and contained too much fear; he _reeked_ of concern for himself. All this bluster, all this showmanship—a farce. Even without my degree of perception, I'd have pointed out that if he was _really_ as strong as he likes to think he wouldn't need to make a fuss. No, he's someone who needs the recognition of others in order to believe in his own prowess. His emotions run strong, true, but this innate need of his makes them easy to manipulate. Show neither submission nor anger, nothing he can grapple with, and his power is immediately halved.

I withdrew back into my mental bunkers, felt the shaky anger grow less and less noticeable until finally my perceptions ceased to register his shaky anger or the howling in the Academy. Although the headache never manifested tension lingered behind my eyes, tightening the muscles in my shoulders and along my spine.

"This is ridiculous, Vemrin," his cohort declared.

I blinked: such a shrill voice coming from such a large chest. Remarkable.

"Let's just kill her and hide her body." He grinned at me, a brutish, uninspired look. But what can one expect from a toady? He's dangerous, all Sith are, but no more than a shyrack or a k'lor'slug. Less, in some ways. Animals don't have perceptible feelings like sapients do.

"We're not on Balmorra anymore, Dolgis. There are rules, traditions. We'll leave shortcuts to Overseer Tremel and his last pathetic hope, here," Vemrin sneered.

I chuckled softly, smiling my best smile at him—the one I usually use before tearing a fellow socialite's throat out. Metaphorically, of course. "I'm going to take _everything_ that is yours, Vemrin. I'm going to burn your world out from under you and then I'm going to kill you." All said in the tone of promising him a puppy and a cookie.

It worked: the certainty, the almost off-handedness in the tone, stuck at him. I didn't recognize his strength, didn't give him more credit for being a threat than he truly deserved. Vemrin bristled without realizing it, moved as if to take a step towards me again… but didn't, contenting himself with simply leaning forward. "You have no idea the enemy you're making," he breathed.

I simply chuckled again, sensing how blooming anger overlay unease, emotions shaken deftly to the top. It's an old game, a skill cultivated year after year among high society. Like many there, he's used to throwing his weight around, a tactic to which people respond. The simple fact that I didn't actually _answer_ his statement wrong-footed him further.

Same game, different locale. I appreciated the familiarity; the sense of familiarity gave me another advantage, a sense of stability, solid footing. The best acolytes are the ones who adapt to their new environs, their new situation quickly, _make_ it familiar, giving themselves bedrock upon which to stand as they face the others.

Vemrin snorted ineloquently. "Come on, Dolgis," he grunted, stalking off, the Force around him even more turbulent—approaching the point I'd call 'uncontrolled'—as he did so.

Dolgis did not follow along immediately. "Listen up, you useless priss," he hissed, stomping up to loom over me. "Acolytes aren't to murder each other, see? But _accidents happen_. It isn't murder without witnesses."

Dolgis was easy, no pricking of 'ears' or cautious ventures out of fortified places to figure _him_. Society has shallow people with overblown egos, too. "One never listens to a servant's empty chatter. You should follow your master's wise example… and _retreat_." With that, I sidestepped him, half-hoping he might try something stupid.

Acolytes _aren't_ supposed to _openly_ murder their fellows, but that doesn't mean we can't shear off an arm if we don't like where the hand attached to it lands.

Sadly, Dolgis was smarter than he looked—not difficult, I suppose. Ah, well.

I continued on to Overseer Tremel's office, chewing over the encounter. Strength without discipline and strength without… true intelligence. My perception is that Dolgis knows he's a small fish. He clings to Vemrin because Vemrin will protect him as long as he remains useful—even if that means just being seen, mimicry of a Sith with an entourage. He's biddable, but stubborn and entrenched. He'd switch sides though, if brought low enough.

Vemrin is an entirely different creature. He's more intelligent, certainly strong, and I'll give him credit for being able to navigate Sith waters thus far. He's a decent acolyte, shakiness aside; if he could fix that, he might even make a reasonable Sith. He's probably aware of both these facts—and if he's not, he's a fool. Self-awareness is critical for any Force user.

Unfortunately for Vemrin, deep down, somewhere inside himself where he doesn't look because he doesn't want to (or, worse for him, doesn't know it), he's still a scared little boy. He's learned the physical and metaphysical skills, but he hadn't learned the head games, even the basic emotional manipulations of others—the fine arts, in other words.

The more I chip away at him, at what he perceives as _his_ , the more I address that insecurity, the more unstable he'll become. His bedrock crumbles, leaving him with gravel. He'll either do something foolish or take the hit to his pride and leave well enough alone in hopes of an ambush later on.

Of course, I'd need another encounter or two to accept these things as more than tentative observations. Still, I've seen his cast before. He knows that if he fails at being a Sith he'll be thrown back to whatever stinkhole he crawled out of… assuming he survives the failure, which is unlikely. I did find it interesting that he feared failure rather than death; it suggests people, family, on the outside.

I locked all these observations away as I entered Tremel's office. He was not alone, which was why I waited just inside the open door. The girl with him was clearly kin; she looked both sour and shrewish. I seemed to have entered during a protracted silence, for neither she nor the Overseer was speaking.

That is until Tremel noticed me, diverting his relative's attention as well.

"Ah, you've returned. Good, good," he nodded. "And you seem to be in one piece. How do you like your new blade?" The change of topic away from the one he shared with the girl couldn't be more transparent—or more final.

Being used to a lightsaber meant my skill was somewhat lessened—the weight of a training blade or a warblade is at the tip, which is not the case with a lightsaber and changes the dynamic of the weapon. However, _Dahdee_ is known best for his swordarm and trained me in the art. A master of the art can adapt. It isn't as though I'll be here a full year, after all. "It's a serviceable weapon, thank you."

The girl looked as though she'd bitten into something unpleasant. "New warblade? I only just got mine and I've been here six months," she complained, giving me a nasty look.

"I have my reasons, Eskella," Tremel answered repressively, motioning me to enter his office fully. "You will not breathe a word of this to _anyone_."

Her mouth twisted, then she shrugged. "Yes." Then when he glared at her, "Yes, Father." For a moment the Sith façade flickered. Another child seeking to gain the approval (or bludgeon that approval into submission), then. Only rather than indignantly rebellions and decisive because of it (as in my case), she feels _threatened_ , failure in gaining the desired approval slowly etching away at her over time.

If she feels threatened so easily, she is in the _wrong_ line of work.

One would think Korriban would encourage nerves of durasteel. Steady nerves will get one through a lot in life.

"This is Eskella, my daughter," Tremel announced negligently.

Eskella bit her lip and continued glaring resentfully at me. have I supplanted her in her father's plans? Or is she just upset that he's pulled a new pet pupil out of nowhere? Does she think she's capable of doing whatever I'm doing—or being set up to so—that her father shouldn't have had to look beyond his bloodline?

All of the above, I think.

"She's an advanced student here, well on her way to becoming Sith. _If_ she minds herself."

This isn't private tutelage. The Overseer should have known better than to keep her this close. It gives the impression that she's weaker than other acolytes, not capable of surviving outside of her father's protecting shadow. It gives the appearance of weakness to him, too: he fears letting her out on her own.

I begin to think this Overseer isn't as smart as I'd hoped.

"I'll keep quiet about your new charge, Father," Eskella growled, "but I _won't_ be there if whatever you're doing blows up in your face." With that, she stalked out, the Force oscillating around her in controlled blooms of power.

Had she been trained away from her father, I suspect she would make a decent Sith. But in her mind she's too much a daughter. I was _Dahdee's_ daughter of course, but when he took on my training I learned not to see him that way. It was easier not to be family.

"Don't mind her," Tremel noted as I watched his daughter departing. "She's just sore that I'm keeping secrets. She'll growl, but she's loyal." The complacency in his tone was sickening.

"I ran into Vemrin in the hall," I noted, more to change the subject than anything else. He's doing that girl a disservice—several—and it doesn't bear brooding on. I begin to think he should have retired by now.

Tremel looked surprised for a brief moment, but wiped it off his face. "Did he make his move so soon?"

"Just an introduction," I answered.

"Hm. I'd hoped we'd have more time. He's not the type to sniff around too long before trying to take a bite."

Especially when he feels threatened, I imagine. I wonder what the story between Tremel and Vemrin's Overseer is. Tremel is certainly very fixated on Vemrin.

"Sit down, Acolyte," Tremel waved to one of the chairs to the side of his desk. "In a drive for sheer numbers, the standards for Academy admittance has been relaxed. Now _anyone_ with Force sensitivity is allowed entrance."

The Edicts. Privately, I find them ridiculous but one doesn't argue with the Emperor.

"Vemrin," Tremel growled, his tone dripping with disgust, "is of _mixed_ blood. The invisible _rot_ eating at the foundations of our Order."

I was actually stunned by this. Not by Vemrin's background but because the Overseer somehow missed the fact that _I_ am of mixed blood, myself. Sith father, non-Sensitive mother. More than that, history bears out that even if the Force often runs in bloodlines, such petty prejudices as the one Tremel just exposed are stupid. It's like the Empire's hang-up on aliens. Aliens—non-humans—are generally looked down on. And yet are ethnic Sith—venerated as the epitome of Sith power and existence—human? I think not.

A Twi'lek Sith can let out your life as easily as a human can. More so, in some ways, since one wouldn't think to look at the alien. The only problem is that an alien often finds him- or her-self ganged up on by weaker human acolytes seeking to prove they're tougher than _someone_. You can't fight everyone.

 _Dahdee_ is Sith, but he's nothing if not pragmatic. It's something he was careful to pass along. Pragmatism before all other things… except, perhaps, self-awareness.

"So you're an elitist snob," I noted in the arch tone I learned from Mother, the flick of the wrist which invites a verbal sparring session that illuminates the other party.

Tremel arched an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a bad thing. It's the Sith way."

Perhaps for stuck-in-a-rut traditionalists.

"Only the best, only the most _pure_ should be good enough."

Then why do you not have red skin and facial tendrils? The Sith way is far simpler: _power_. _Strength_. There are those who have them and those who do not. Anything else is a social construct that creates monstrous blind spots, weak points that can be exploited by anyone aware of them.

I begin to appreciate, more than usual, the benefits of a private education. I was spared indoctrination with such tripe as this fool is spouting. I was lucky to have a mentor I could respect, even if I hated him.

Ah, but be careful, Hella. Tremel might be a fool, but he didn't get to his post without some skill—skill enough to enable him to keep both it _and_ his head. And for decades, if he's telling the truth.

I forced my mental rumblings to even out, to smooth out, letting the irritation drift off me like heat from one of the sunbaked stones outside.

"Unfortunately," Tremel continued, "Vemrin's caught the eye of Darth Baras—one of the most influential Sith lords."

Not a fellow Overseer, then. But Overseers are not Darths, which makes me wonder about this Darth Baras. Why would Tremel pick a fight with him? And what part am I to play? _Surely_ he doesn't think to 'train' me, then drag me across this Darth's path in hopes that Vemrin will be discarded in my favor?

If so, that suggests Tremel is losing whatever footholds he has and seeks to regain lost ground _in a hurry_. This is a power play—I knew that much—but with less able players than I thought. He's trying to get the smell of blood out of the water rather than simply getting out of the water himself.

I begin to think that Vemrin's lineage isn't even a real issue—just a reason Tremel can use to justify meddling in Darth business.

Because I'm very certain a Darth knows what kind of apprentice he wants and won't take kindly to meddlers, even if they were to bring him the next Exar Kun as an apprentice. The Darth would just kill the presumptuous Overseer while keeping the Acolyte. Or more likely would use the Acolyte to kill the Overseer and call it initiation. Those in power often prefer not to get their hands dirty if they can help it.

But it's as _Dahdee_ said: ' _those Sith not inundated with foes and fools who can't do their own killing, are fools themselves and I'm not training a fool. Kill your own enemies whenever possible—then you_ _know_ _they're really dead._ '

"…to your next trial immediately."

I blinked as I fully tuned back in to Tremel's speech. I don't need to hear his propaganda or diatribes. I'll need to step carefully from here on in. I refuse to be killed by his stupidity.

 _Dahdee_ would laugh himself silly if I let a fool like Tremel draw me into his machinations and get me killed.

Then we get back to the whole resurrection or something equally horrible with my ghost so he could criticize my lack of wisdom or cleverness.

 **Korriban, Part III**

Tremel was in a foul mood when I returned from the interrogation in the slave pens.

Head Jailor Knash proved to be an unimaginative, uninspired brute but I had more respect for him than for Tremel at this point. Apparently, Tremel was taking as many shortcuts as Vemrin accused him of taking. I could allow the early warblade, I'm not exactly a novice with one or in the Sith arts. But interrogations _are_ supposed to be _off-world_ and _with a purpose_.

Tremel's actions put me in a bad position: that of perceived weakness. Just as he's done to Eskella. And I'll be the one who has to correct and correct and _correct_ the misimpression he's colored me with.

To be honest, I wasn't interested in dealing with Tremel at all by that point. All I really wanted was to get some supper and go to bed, face him with a clear mind in the morning. Unfortunately, Korriban is all about harshness, about refining strengths and bludgeoning out weaknesses. Those first two months were quite a shock to my previously comfortable existence.

But I wanted Korriban. I fought with _Dahdee_ over Korriban—he worried it might ruin his careful training of me. I made adjustments to myself to accommodate the new situations and surroundings. As far as the other acolytes… Society is pretty cutthroat, too. We just constrain ourselves to the word as a metaphor whereas on Korriban there are actually quite a few slit throats and people can literally smell blood.

"Overseer." I handed him the datapad Knash recorded the interrogation on.

"Good. You're dismissed. I'll see you tomorrow."

The sudden blunt dismissal surprised me, but it was hardly an unwelcome surprise.

 **Interlude: Jaesa**

"Now, pop quiz," Her Lordship said, breaking her smooth narrative.

I opened my eyes, not realizing they had fallen shut, imagination supplying images to go with her words. "A what?"

"The three people I interrogated," Her Lordship said, "can you tell me why I made the decisions I made? Do you see the logic?"

I knew she wasn't looking for a yes or no answer to that last question. I shifted in my seat as she sipped her water. Her Lordship values logic up there with pragmatism. "We-ell…" I shifted again, forcing my brain to change gears. "Well, I suppose Imperial Intelligence is better than being freelance—when you murder someone for Intelligence they make sure you're never held accountable for it. And I suppose Intelligence can always use extra pairs of mostly competent hands."

"Good. And the failed warrior?"

"Well, he was going to die one way or another. I don't see a problem in letting him put up a fight—and I don't think for a moment he was a match for you if he ended up in a place like that."

Her Lordship chuckled at this. "You're on the right track. I'll give you half credit—unless you want to try for full?"

I thought about it, devoting serious consideration to the matter. Then, finally, shook my head. The truth was, I could see why most people would just execute him and move on. Even Sith apparently have limitations to what 'acceptable losses' are when it comes to Imperials.

Her Lordship didn't seem perturbed that I didn't have an answer for her. "And the last? The forger?"

He was the real puzzle, a puzzle that left me frowning. "Aside from the fact that he would never be allowed to leave Korriban… who'd _want_ to frame a wretch like him?"

Her Lordship's smile was predatory. " _Exactly_."


	13. Chapter 13

**Korriban, Part IV**

I did feel better able to deal with the fool of an Overseer after breakfast, which was when his summons came. Fed and rested, I found Tremel in a better mood than he had been the night before.

"There you are. Sit down. I've reviewed your interrogations. The would-be assassin—Imperial Intelligence. Good, I commend you," Tremel mused. His leathery face didn't show it, just a smug kind of complacency.

"It was obvious." She might rail about not working for free but I suspect keeping her _life_ will be payment enough. Imperial Intelligence—or Imperial Affairs, as the better circles of Dromund Kaas call it—will either shape her or kill her and hide the body. If they even bother doing that. The woman clearly didn't have a clue.

"The failed warrior, Devotek. Why grant his request for trial by combat?"

I had two answers ready, a real answer and one manufactured in case I decided not to argue with a man so obviously set in his ways. I gave him the manufactured answer in order to spare myself a blue face with nothing to show for it. If I was rested enough to deal with him, he was rested enough to hammer back if he didn't like what he heard. Unfortunately, I wasn't a child still in my formative years; I wasn't at a period of my life where things were correct merely because he—a supposed authority figure—said they were.

"I honored him for his achievements. He was once a potent warrior."

The fact is that I knew nothing about him. _Dahdee_ insisted that one should _always_ know who one is killing. With Devotek, I had no idea who his friends were, who his masters were, whether he had influential acquaintances. Any one of these people might condemn him for his faults but be inclined to remember positively the one who ended him with dignity—enough to remember that Sith's name. It can be useful to be taken notice of. It wasn't as though he could best me, after all. The combat was a death sentence; just a dressed-up, glorified one that others would take note of and possibly appreciate.

If not, it still doesn't matter. I'd have been his executioner anyway.

Even in death, people can be useful. Sometimes it's all about _how_ they die.

"We don't have time," Tremel's tone was tight with disapproval, "to honor yesterday's achievements. Devotek was an utter waste of space. Once something is no longer useful it should be _eradicated._ "

If we weren't 'honoring yesterday's achievements' I wouldn't be the horse he's betting on to cement or advance his position. He _is_ a 'yesterday's achievement.' _Dahdee_ would argue—and I can see it—that he's still useful. But that usefulness is double-edged. I can fast-track my way to true Sith standing, already trained as I am rather than wasting time twaddling along with children—some of them half my age—just beginning to come into their own.

Unfortunately, it means proving again and again that Tremel snatched at an exceptional individual rather than promoting one without merit.

I swear, this man should have been culled years ago. He's obviously growing senile… especially since I _did_ eradicate Devotek and it wasn't an accidental killing or anything like that.

"And the last one, the alien," he said delicately.

I simply nodded to show I acknowledged having dealt with it. Personally, I hadn't _wanted_ to deal with the pathetic creature, but training won out. Who would go to so much trouble to frame such a creature? And why? I didn't care but the information might be useful to someone else. _Dahdee's_ voice in my head approved, after its real-life counterpart's acerbic fashion: I got points for overcoming my own apathy on the subject and points for decisive action.

Always be decisive. Act with purpose. Just lashing out isn't enough. Real 'lashing out' is the result of thought, purpose, follow-through. It's not an instinctive or impulsive act.

"You performed tolerably well," Tremel declared after a moment's thought. "But you must always be thinking, and considering every angle."

Clearly more angles than he has, though I kept my mouth shut about it.

"Apart from a strong sword-arm, _that_ will be what impresses Darth Baras the most."

So, he does seek to insert me into Baras' service, taking on the luster of having 'trained' such a promising apprentice. It's a foolish plan. Better that he'd retired when he had the chance. I don't see any Darth being patient with an Overseer who interferes with his or her business. Or, rather, one who interferes so blatantly.

"You're beginning to understand what it means to be Sith, but you're far from being able to impress Darth Baras."

He's a _Darth_. They don't impress easily. 'Impressed' comes after repeated validation of ability and repeated performance beyond the basic expectation. An apprentice does not impress a master like a piece of fancy jewelry impresses a buyer.

Which gives me a new consideration: sooner or later, this is all going to get back to Darth Baras. At that point he'll do one of two things. He'll either kill me and Tremel both (or _try_ to kill me), or he'll destroy Tremel and keep me—maybe make me do the destroying to show I have no attachment to the man.

It depends on how wasteful the Darth's mindset is. Some would be wasteful in that they would destroy a valuable Sith out of spite. Others would recognize strength where it exists.

And I am always modest about my strength. Otherwise, I might believe I have more than I do which just won't do. Witness Vemrin.

"I will make efforts to correct these weaknesses, Overseer," I said imperturbably.

"If you don't, you're doomed," he intoned dramatically… though he glared as if knowing what I said and what I _thought_ were two quite different things.

Idiot.

"Because I brought you into the Academy early, Darth Baras will be predisposed to judging you severely. And by 'severely' I mean 'fatally.'"

Naturally. But I'm not without recognizable merit of my own. I'm concerned… but not uneasy. I'll simply have to do a bit of poking around to see what others know about this Darth Baras. If I can get a look at him, so much the better. It would be nice to have a face to go with the name.

 **Korriban, Part V**

I breathed deep the tomb's still air, my mind clear, leaving me aware of the Force dancing around me, something upon which to focus rather than my own burning resentments and ire, irritation and disgust. I let those wave in my mind like so many water weeds in the depths of a pond, visible, hazy ribbons of darkness, ready to be pulled into service, fuel for action.

Marka Ragnos—so said Tremel, that nitwit—left a beast to guard his tomb, the kind that smells out the living and destroys them. That it's still here suggests to me that not enough people have tried to kill it. I also had the suspicion that this 'trial,' like the interrogation, was to be done off-world with something vicious, not here on Korriban with something vicious… and notorious.

The bones around me suggested the thing was quite lethal. I didn't doubt the beast drew some of the corpses it made deeper into the tomb, but there was a decidedly scant number of dead where I waited.

It started as a shiver in the Force, a rattle that danced like drumming fingers on my perceptions. This was succeeded by a low rumble that was purely auditory, and the sense that I was being stalked. I got to my feet, pins and needles tickling my calves as blood began to flow properly, sword resting easily—if lopsidedly—in my hand.

The still air coiled with the pervasive sense of being tracked, leaving me to examine the room, placing everything in my mind again, so I wouldn't trip on anything once the fighting started.

The beast didn't slink into the room cautiously. It exploded out of the hole it had created in one wall. I jumped to the side, but was too slow, off-balance at seeing my own trick—get in their faces and hit hard before they quite realize what's going on—thrown back at me. I hit the ground with the massive monster over me, its hind foot digging and scraping for purchase as it tried to get its head where its teeth could to some damage, claws worrying at the side by which I was pinned.

The pain was unlike anything I'd ever experienced; for a moment all I could do was gasp and try to think through the blinding white that replaced everything. I'd never been badly hurt before. Flesh tore like wet paper.

Finally, the beast simply kicked at me with its hind foot, sending me rolling along the floor, the stones of the temple scraping at my garments. But I was free of the claws, though the wounds bled freely, crimson liquid sheeting down from the highest mark just beneath my left breast to the lowest near my left knee.

The pain was nauseating but Death in the form of Marka Ragnos' damnable akk dog was still alert, still hungry, still kill-ready. I scrabbled back, aware of and sickly fascinated by the trail of crimson I left as I stumbled back, back…

I'd never felt _fear_ like this before. It clawed at my mind, tried to haze reason, to reduce me to a creature of instinct. Mine would surely fail in the face of something that survived _as_ a creature of instinct.

It lunged at me, but had to abort the lunge because of my proximity to one of the great pedestal torches—if it made the lunge properly, it would have crashed into the stone and the beast was smarter than that.

The halt of a started path of travel was what I wanted.

It lurched forward then reared back, roaring its displeasure.

A Sith can throw her lightsaber, though _Dahdee_ frowns on the practice: one never lets go of a weapon. In his case, he only has the one weapon and, like mine, it's set on a very sensitive dead-man's switch; if he lets go, no blade. In _my_ case, I can throw the weapon I carry in my left hand: it's not set up for Trakata.

In _this_ case, being unable to move freely, I threw my warblade…

…right into the thing's gaping, yawning mouth, the Force guiding it and pushing it through, up to the hilt so it protruded from behind the monster's head. If one can cope with pain, can think through it, then one knows to rely on the Force as the body fails. And the Force comes when called, if enough will can be focused.

I may never have been hurt so badly, but I could still think.

It was like a sonic boom against my senses, a rolling, thrumming ripple in the Force as the creature's spirit came loose from its body.

I groaned, and not just from the pain of my wounds. There was no way the whole Academy wouldn't feel that. Damn Tremel; for all his attempts at subtlety he's remarkably stupid.

I flopped back against the torch's pedestal, tears trickling as I fingering my wounds before actually looking at them: deep scores gushed from beneath my left breast almost to my knee. It wouldn't be long before I felt light-headed, before I found myself in a position _not_ to think clearly. I began panting for breath, certain that if I stopped thinking about breathing I would simply pass out, bleed out, and be embarrassingly _dead_.

Damn Tremel… and me too, for being an idiot.

Force healing is one of those skills that _Dahdee_ insisted I learn. Pride has killed a lot of Sith over the centuries; best of us accept that one gets hurt in the Sith line of work and make themselves ready to do something about it. Although most acolytes are permitted to carry a medkit among their gear, it's not wise to rely on an externality like that. One never knows when one might be without it.

I'm not prone to major displays of Force power; in fact, I go to some lengths to give the appearance that I don't have a particularly strong affinity for active use. The passive things—a lunge, a leap, superb balance, extra strength or precision in a swing—those things absolutely. But nothing like snapping necks or lightning (which I have trouble with anyway) or pushes, pulls, that sort of thing. The more people believe I rely heavily on my sword-arm out of necessity the better off I am.

It shocks them when they realize I'm not actually that limited. And I'm not prone to leaving witnesses to that fact.

Fortunately, I was alone.

The problem lay in the fact that knitting oneself back together after being mauled by claws like those and being so slow to treat them is… difficult. I think the Emperor himself might have had a little trouble with it.

 **Korriban, Part VI**

I ached, was only able to focus on the fact that the worst of the internal damages had been… mitigated. I'd never been so badly hurt, nor tried to heal myself when so badly hurt, so my prior experiences with pain and repairing damage proved about as useful as nail varnish on a vine cat. I'd done what I could, but would certainly have to bend to necessity and limp to the infirmary.

No Sith likes going to the infirmary. Others smell blood in the water. On the other hand, better to prove oneself healed and ready for anything than to be attacked because there actually _is_ blood in the water left by wounds untreated.

I intend to be a living Sith. It's worth making it clear my wounds weren't as bad as all that once they really aren't.

But they seeped. Since there weren't enough bandages in my now-gutted medkit, the whole left side of my clothing was stiffening with drying blood with which the fresh mingled.

All in all, it was a valuable object lesson. Not only a lesson to which I objected—though I certainly did—but reminding me to keep firmly in mind that modesty about ability keeps one from having too many nasty surprises when it comes to dealing with opponents. In this case, I was overconfident in my ability to perceive immediate danger and moreover to react to that immediate danger in timely fashion.

Looking back, I shouldn't have been kneeling to meditate; I should have been ready to jump clear as soon as I realized I was being stalked. That's the thing about surviving an encounter like this: one learns where one went wrong and, if one is remotely intelligent, remembers for future reference.

I'm critical of others; in my favor, I'm critical of myself—and if I'm not, the _Dahdee_ in my head does it well enough.

I had not gone very far, aware of seeping wounds and clawing pain, when I came face-to-face with Dolgis. I wasn't surprised to see him, I'd perceived I wasn't alone, but I was in a lot of pain and very angry—with myself, with the beast's success in maiming me, with everything in general. If I thought the training burns on my forearms were bad…

In short, my sunny disposition had been utterly ruined. I was glad to have someone soft to lash out at. It's not a luxury I usually permit myself, lashing out simply because I'm in a bad mood.

Dolgis grinned as his beady eyes roved up and down my bloodied form. "Well, well. Look at this."

I didn't bother telling him to get the Void out of my way. I didn't need to be Force sensitive to know why he was here. He _thought_ he was clever, he _thought_ he'd get cute.

Too bad: the one day he proved he _could_ think was the day he got bitchy Hella instead of pleasant Hella.

"All busted up and alone."

Of course he would assume 'soft target.' I can't blame him for that. I do blame him for not realizing I'm not being subtle about the ripples I create—as all living things do—within the Force at this point.

"Notice anything?" Dolgis asked, leering with anticipation at what he perceived as an easy kill.

More than he does, certainly.

I gripped the hilt of my sword tighter, willing the pain back as I flexed the fingers of my other hand. There's no one to see it, I'll just snap his neck—no, _strangle_ him. When I get tired of the process _then_ snap his neck. He could be in here awhile, unnoticed, unmissed.

"No witnesses. No witnesses means no rules—ack!"

"I'm aware, fool," I snapped, bringing a crushing grip about his throat. His sword dropped as his hands flew up to scrabble at the invisible grip squeezing his airway.

"W-wait," Dolgis rasped, struggling to breathe, then to talk, then to breathe again. "I don't… I don't want to die!"

I didn't particularly care. All I cared about was that it disgusted me to see this would-be Sith so oblivious to the idea that he could be killed during training for no better reason than picking the wrong fight with the wrong person on the wrong day. There was nothing for me to say, no reason to try to get under his skin, into his head, weaken him before killing him.

I simply stood there, watched the whole ugly process of strangulation, then stepped over his corpse as I limped back to the Academy, sword in hand, unable to keep the anger masking pain off my face. It could have been worse, I suppose: I could have had to engage him physically. That would have torn open all my injuries, leaving me worse off than before.

 **Korriban, Part VII**

Tremel _met_ me. In fact, he was loitering in the hall leading to his offices. "We must speak quickly," he said, regarding my bloodied clothes and torn flesh with unease. "There isn't much time."

"Time enough for me to change my clothes at least?" I asked, trying not to sound strained. If he's not waiting for me in his office, if he hung about waiting for me to return to cut down on the time it takes to have a word with me, something is wrong.

"I'm afraid not, although it would be preferable. I may have made a slight… miscalculation." Lack of time or not, he led me back to his offices. I leaned against the wall for support, swallowing hard.

Damn it all to the Void…

"The beast of Marka Ragnos…"

"Sent a ripple through the Force when I killed it. I know. I was there," I growled, placing a palm over the worst of the wounds and concentrating. I'm not a strong healer, and I never expected to be injured quite like this. I don't need to be _healed_ I just need to be able to fight if I have to. Because I know I'm not going to like whatever has Tremel worried.

"That ripple was sensed by Darth Baras. He has become aware of you."

Damn it all to the Void and back so I can damn it all over again… does he think this is surprising? Or even news?

"He requires my presence?"

"Yes," Tremel agreed.

"Damnation," I panted, aware that the wounds had closed a little more. At the very least, the worst of them seeped less than when I arrived. I still looked like a murder victim, though. If there was no time to change clothes everyone—more of everyone—would see that. The question was whether I could make it look like I was the toughest, most dangerous thing because I survived or whether others would smell weakness because I came away injured.

And that, unfortunately, depends on the Sith.

Then again, those injuries after a ripple even a weak acolyte would feel… many people would put two and two together. Or assume two and two equals four.

"Tell me what to expect." I'll have to get these treated in the infirmary after all. _Damn_ my own bad preparations!

"Baras is a serious man and a master of deception. Everything he says and does is precisely calculated." We belong to a similar school, then. "He will attempt to trip you up, test your nature, get to the very heart of who you are. Always take him seriously and I mean _always_ ," Tremel warned.

"I understand. Thank you."

Tremel swallowed and I noted how the lines in his face had grown deeper. "We may not speak again. You're the best chance of stopping Vemrin."

Through my own concerns, my mental lip curled. Short-sighted fool.

"If you fail, I doubt there will be another strong enough. Good luck."

Which really means 'I'm pretending I'll see you again when I know I won't. I'm pretty sure you'll take the brunt of this and I'll be left to navigate the wreckage. Good day.'

I took a deep breath, checked my injuries then, because I felt in no angelic mood, grabbed the pitcher of water on his desk and washed my hands in it. If I can't get out of my bloody clothes—which reek to the very sky—I can at least clean my hands.

Tremel frowned, but said nothing. Maybe he felt I deserved that much before walking into the lion's den.

 **Korriban, Part VIII**

Darth Baras was short, squat, and wore large shoulder guards which added to his already considerable bulk. Here was a man long out of the practice of killing his own foes. He wore a heavy, ornate mask which supported Tremel's comment about being a master of deception, rendering it unnecessary for him to have to school his features: the metal protected anything not revealed by tone and body language. I couldn't even see the glitter of eyes behind the slits.. Even body language was garbled, his long, loose robes concealing much of his form.

The Force clung to him, secretive and furtive.

Vemrin, as well as half a dozen other acolytes, waited upon Baras in a semicircle, taking the last of his orders.

Unwilling to interrupt, I hovered in the doorway. The courtesy netted me an expression that nearly set me to laughing when Vemrin turned to find me there in all my bloody glory.

He checked in his pace as if unsure whether he saw a living woman or not. I stood my ground, forcing the departing apprentices to skirt me, like a river dividing to accommodate a stone. When they'd passed, I took a knee before the Darth. "You summoned me, my lord. I present myself."

"Yes," Darth Baras mused, fingering the top of his desk as he regarded me. "Come here."

I got up and did so, studying him discreetly. Yes, that bulk really is him mostly, not due to padding in his garments.

I could feel him taking me in, hidden eyes wandering over the blood on my clothes and flesh, lingering on the semi-healed wounds, the ones covered with bandages. It occurred to me, as I stood there under examination, that if I was the first one to kill that beast, then taking injury in the process might not have as much import as I first thought. True, I didn't come out without a scratch… but it's dead and I'm not. I got back to the Academy under my own power. I can stand and put off better treatment of my injuries.

In many ways, the injuries prove I'm far stronger than might be expected.

It's not coming out without a scratch, but it definitely alludes to my ability to survive.

"Are you having problems with Acolyte Vemrin, supplicant?" Baras asked, his tone slightly lighter than when he'd addressed his gaggle of acolytes.

"No, my lord. But he may have some problems with me." Now that Dolgis is out of the way—regardless of whether Vemrin actually _sent_ him—Vemrin will either have to keep throwing flunkies at me or come at me himself. Doubt about surviving an encounter with the slayer of the beast of Marka Ragnos may well weaken the spines of said flunkies. Perhaps even enough to _force_ Vemrin to contend with me himself, sooner rather than later.

"He had been hardened into a lethal machine," Baras declared, his tone growing stern, the Force thickening as it hung around him, like clouds blocking the sun. A neat trick with which to accent his speech. "Vemrin has paid his dues. He has fought a deck stacked against him to get here."

He's still human. Aliens face worse, assuredly. And I know where his weak flank is.

"You, on the other hand…" I could almost feel him prodding at me through the Force and resisted the urge to repel such scrutiny. It wouldn't help much. Instead, I focused on the feat I'd accomplished, at my discontent with Tremel, at my annoyance with Vemrin. I let thoughts of pain and fear, anything that might show weaknesses to be exploited, sink slowly beneath the mire of everything else… and I, personally, retreated back through several safeguards in my mind just to be safe.

A silence followed as Baras chewed over his perceptions. "Overseer Tremel has done you and this Academy a great disservice."

On that we agree wholeheartedly.

"Your warblade came early. Prisoners flown in for _your_ convenience. A beast here on Korriban instead of _off-world in the wild_. The pacing of the trials is deliberate; only full immersion over time produces results."

Well, I've been immersed all my life… though I agree that a change of environment would probably have helped. If nothing else, it would have expanded my perceptions of the galaxy.

"Your mind is _soft_. _Unhoned_ ," he growled. " _Undisciplined_." He certainly had remarkable control over his voice and could assume any number of nuances from within that excellent vocal range—and accent them here and there with adroit tugs at the Force. Some professional stage actors aren't that gifted; and many Sith ate too heavy-handed to appreciate such delicate usage of the Force.

I didn't think he was angry with me. Given Tremel's assessment, it was more likely he was watching to see how I reacted to his displeasure, to the implications I was subpar when I knew my own strengths and merits. Like me, tapping at a foe while listening to the emotions roiling beneath the surface, except I was fairly certain he wasn't employing a trick like that.

So I waited. One doesn't block a fist that has yet to move and, in so anticipating the action, fail to block the actual blow.

"It's offensive," Baras continued, "to be presented with an acolyte who doesn't even have a rudimentary understanding of what it means to be Sith!" He slapped his desk for emphasis. I could imagine him glaring at me to see how I responded to a raised voice and the sharp action of his slapping his hand on his desk for emphasis.

I waited in easy readiness. He hadn't asked me to say anything so I wasn't going to blurt out justifications. _Dahdee_ wouldn't have accepted excuses or apologies; there was no reason to think this Darth would.

"The first month should be dedicated to philosophy, conceptual tactics, understanding of the Sith Code. Recite the Sith Code for me, Acolyte, and explain its meaning in battle, war, and politics."

I recited the Code promptly, but at a deliberate pace to give myself time to think and avoid accusations of being pert or flippant.

What would be better? To let him perceive a weakness or a lack, or to show him I am, in fact, very well educated?

I compromised, giving a brief assessment for combat-related things but feigning general ignorance of political application. I don't know whether he bought into the idea of a weakness there, but he did not call me on it.

"Hm. Your ability is undeniable, yet you remain woefully lacking."

He let the silence stretch unpleasantly, waiting for me to squirm.

I bowed my head and waited. I hadn't been asked to speak, I wasn't about to jump the blaster. I can endure silence.

"Hm." This time, it sounded more like a laugh, or approval. " _I_ am your master, now. Luckily for you, Tremel was becoming lax long before you arrived at this Academy. His unwillingness to adapt to the evolving Sith paradigm has become a liability. His are the actions of a traitor."

He's going to have me kill Tremel for him. The Overseer overplayed. The question is whether _I_ will long survive Tremel.

"Traitors are executed." Another pause, as if waiting for something.

This time, I let sparks of approval show. The Academy will benefit from the removal of Tremel's idiocy. Purity of blood, indeed. What rubbish.

"I grant you immunity from punishment." He said it in such a way that left me in no doubt he was in a position to do so… _if_ he condescended to follow through, making that statement an actual promise of protection for one carrying out his orders. "Kill Tremel. Then… then bring me his hand as proof of the deed."

"It shall be as you decree, my lord."

As soon as I was dismissed, I headed for the infirmary. From everything I understand about Baras, he won't care that it's done _immediately_ so much as it's done reasonably _soon_. And that it gets done rather than gets botched.

 **Korriban, Part IX**

I was met on my way to grab a scrap of dinner by four bright-eyed and eager acolytes… one of whom reminded me so strongly of Dolgis that my temper threatened to flare outside my control. I was stiff, my wounds pained me, and hunger gnawed in my stomach.

"Hey! You! Are you the bigshot they're all talking about? The one who's been personally summoned by Darth Baras himself?" the one so reminiscent of Dolgis demanded pugnaciously, seeming to loom more than he might otherwise do in his… is it enthusiasm?

"What do you want?" I demanded, stomach grumbling mutinously. My mood had not improved, but even on a good day their eager, nervous enthusiasm would be annoying at best. It seemed horribly out of place at the Academy.

"Careful Teeno!" a girl cautioned, moving to stand in front of Teeno, her expression apologetic.

"Come on," Teeno complained, "I'm antsy for some action."

"I am _not_ in the mood for nonsense," I declared firmly.

The girl shied away, or would have had Teeno not been blocking her progress. He, and the two lads with him, stiffened at the threat in my tone. "Please pardon us, it's just that we've heard so much about you…" the girl's tone faltered as I glared.

"And we wanna get in good with you," Teeno said, conspiratorially.

I have no need for a Dolgis of my own, thank you. I found the original woefully wanting. I have no faith in this… successive model.

"Teeno!" the girl chided. "What my _blunt_ partner means to say is that if you need someone or something _dealt with_ , we'd like you to consider us." She savored the implication, close to a declaration as it was. There was something fresh-faced, naïve… almost innocent in the offer.

It made me want to retch.

I considered throwing them all across the room, but discipline held firm. It's only hunger pangs, nothing to get dramatic over. The wounds have almost sealed themselves, so I'm only a _little_ tender. No need to be grouchy over those, either. "I'm not interested."

"She's talking about Vemrin," Teeno put in, as if I'd missed the point. "We'll kill him for you."

"Sorry," the girl blushed. "I should have had Teeno muzzled."

Indeed because this is a public corridor, you idiot. "No. I don't think so." Mostly because I was quite capable of doing my own killing, partly because my first good look at them revealed just what I'd expected: riders of coattails. They'd be killed and my hand would be detected in such a failure. It would _not_ reflect well on me.

The girl looked taken a back at my blunt refusal. "I-of course. But, consider this—"

No.

"—acolytes aren't to openly kill one another. If Vemrin died, the Lords will assume your guilt…"

Conversation lulled as several Acolytes passed by, but resumed in more conspiratorial tones. "But if you get yourself an alibi, they might _suspect_ but they'll never _pin_ it on you," Teeno pressed.

Oh yes they will because these fools will botch the job.

"We know Vemrin tried to have _you_ killed," the girl wheedled, glancing at my now-hidden scars. "Would you like him eliminated?"

"I would _like_ to be allowed to go to dinner," I declared.

The girl looked even more taken aback by this, as if she couldn't understand why I was flatly refusing her offer.

Another reason to say no: if she has no concept of her limitations, if she thinks brute force will be what's needed… then she's deluding herself.

"Wait, please," she scrambled in front of me. "Spar with us… after you've eaten… _then_ decide if we have the skills to aid you in this endeavor." She looked so hopeful that the spiteful part of me smiled.

"Very well. But I warn you: there will be injuries."

"That's a chance we're willing to take!" the girl exclaimed.

She wasn't so enthusiastic when I broke her sword arm in three places, broke another's shoulder before kicking out his knee, kicked out one of Teeno's knees before slamming his face into the floor (not once but twice), and knocked the fourth one out cold with a well-placed strike with a practice blade. The last one got off easy, since he had the sense to—as I came in—express his doubts about the wisdom of this sparring match.

It was a brisk bit of exercise, just what I like after a meal.


	14. Chapter 14

For the duration of Hella's account it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Hella's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

 **Korriban, Part X**

I didn't hide the grotesque trophy any more than I hid my grim amusement. Tremel grossly underestimated me and paid for it.

Not with his life, that was forfeit, but with my pointing out that he was using one of 'mixed blood' to kill someone else 'mixed blood.' And that it was an Acolyte of mixed blood who had killed _him_ instead. He might have died well before I told him. He didn't die so well when he understood in just how many ways he'd misjudged me.

Darth Baras was in his chambers, despite how late it was. "Ah. I see you've returned." A pause, during which I knew he was regarding the trophy in my hand.

"My lord," I took a knee, then rose, holding up Tremel's hand in clear view. "All you require has been done." The thing bled all over the place, spattering my clothes with fresh blood, leaving the smell of copper and meat in my nostrils. A lightsaber would have made a cleaner job, cauterizing as it cut. Unfortunately, Sith acolytes aren't given lightsabers until near the end of their training.

"So you have. And without further damages." He strode up to me, taking the hand and regarding it, turning it over and over as though it was a wax prop rather than part of an actual sapient. "I'm impressed you had the fortitude to destroy him. You know he thought highly of you." Then, when I remained silent, since he hadn't actually asked for a response, "How did it feel to betray him?"

I never really felt it was a betrayal. He was intent on using me and had a poor plan in mind to do so. "As you said, my lord: Tremel was lax and failed to adapt to change. He should have quit while he was ahead."

Baras chuckled deep in his chest. "I can feel the truth of it," he mused. Finally, he yanked and tugged the silver band off of Tremel's finger then held it—the ring, not the hand—out to me. "Here. Take this one ring. A memento. Remembering the past can strengthen resolve and embolden the spirit."

I accepted the token, took the tie holding my hair back, secured the ring to one end and retied it, the silver token glinting against the red backdrop. I'll need to watch my step for Eskella. Whether or not her father hamstrung her by being her father rather than her mentor is unknown. Therefore, pretend he didn't and give her plenty of credit. If he did do her a disservice and she recognizes it… she'll hopefully believe that she doesn't stand a chance.

I think she'll fight, though. She'd lose face if she didn't. The questions are where and when she'll pick her quarrel with me… and whether she'll bring help.

"You have taken your first steps to embracing the Code rather than parroting it. You have freed yourself from Tremel's shackles—and his fate. Now, your real work begins." Another silence during which he studied me. "Your delay in dealing with Tremel has left you somewhat behind your… peers. Ten minutes ago, I sent them into the Tomb of Tulak Hord. Within the tomb are inscriptions which now lie in pieces. Enter the tomb. You will bring me back a shard from each of the inscriptions."

He didn't need to give me the alternative to success. This was, after all, Korriban.

 **Korriban, Part XI**

The tomb was full of shyrack. By themselves, shyrack are only mildly dangerous. In a flock they can be quite dangerous, persevering through weight of numbers. It was clear within minutes of having entered the ruins that the shyrack had no local predator to cull their numbers. Therefore, acolytes were used instead to keep the ruins from becoming utterly impassable.

There were many bodies of Acolytes, ripped and shredded, some of them maimed by something other than shyrack. Late in the evening, the number of Acolytes present was lower than it probably would be during the day.

I didn't run into Vemrin as I would have liked. I _did_ run into a frothing-at-the-mouth Eskella and four lackeys. She fought hard, but not well. Like the shyrack in the ruins, she sought to rely on force of numbers rather than individual aptitude. Her father did her great disservice: her abilities were mediocre at best, she was poorly trained, and she hadn't the sense to _concentrate_ her rage rather than simply flying off the handle at the first opportunity.

A Sith should not rely overmuch on the abilities of others to forward her own interests. One never knows when that which is relied upon will be gone. And then what happens if they die or decided to take themselves (and their talent) elsewhere? Reliance is for personal ability. Occasionally tapping the abilities of others is fine but _reliance_ must be, first and foremost, upon oneself.

"You have them," a voice demanded as I reached the entrance, a ripple through the Force indicating the owner of the voice had been concealing himself to avoid notice. I recognized him as one of the acolytes with Vemrin the last time I saw him. "The shards." There was a hard sort of hunger in his voice, burning in his eyes; his face, clothes, and skin indicated he'd had too much trouble with the shyrack.

This indication of trouble told me why he was here: it was one of the oldest Sith means-to-an-ends. He meant to kill me and take my shards, telling the story as he saw fit.

But he was afraid. I could feel it sharply which meant he was utterly _terrified_. Too terrified to put a dampener on the emotion so others couldn't pick up on it. Sith don't repress their feelings but they certainly learn to dull what others might perceive. Never expose your soft underbelly. It's virtually suicidal on Korriban.

"I'm in a hurry," I declared darkly.

"So am I."

 **Korriban, Part XII**

I'd quite reached what I felt to be the limit of my tolerance for stupidity for one week. The depths of pathetic the acolyte achieved before I killed him left me with a sour feeling in my stomach. 'Too many shyrack' and he thought he could take _me_ on? If he'd kept himself hidden and come at me from behind he'd have had a better chance. Not much of one, but he'd at least get points for effort.

So far, in a week or so, I'd had to deal with Dolgis, with those four stupid acolytes—'rethink this Sith training thing' indeed! Where did they think they were, summer camp?—Eskella and her four idiots, and now the nameless acolyte cooling in the tomb.

I've killed more people in the past week than in the past two months I've been on this little rock. I don't know if I should be proud at garnering so much attention or irritated by the lack of skill demonstrated by my would-be aggressors. With the way the Korriban gossip mill turns, one would think people would have realized a certain caliber of individual should just _stay away._

It's such a wasteful system, even if it ensures the very strong or the very sneaky succeed.

Vemrin was with Darth Baras when I arrived, shards of the inscriptions spread out on Baras' desk for his examination. Apparently I'd made up time.

Both men looked up as I entered, Vemrin's expression tightening as I took a knee before Baras, then presented him with the shards I'd recovered. "As you required, my lord."

"Superb," Baras mused, waving a hand to coil the Force around the shards, taking them from me and spreading them out on the other side of his desk. "Simply superb." He turned his metal face to Vemrin, who seemed to tremble with the effort of not showing how much I'd gotten under his skin.

But I could _feel_ it. Sensitivity to the emotions of others is a weakness but even such a weakness comes with some compensations. Even through the layer upon layer of carefully constructed deafening to block out others, to keep them quiet, I could feel his anger and dismay acutely without effort.

"It appears your hopes have been dashed, Vemrin," Baras noted lightly.

Lightly like a scalpel cuts into flesh, that is. He's down to two promising acolytes. Now he pits us against one another to see which comes out on top. It's a classically Sith play, one of the 'old games.'

"Appearances can be deceptive," Vemrin answered, voice low in the back of his throat as if he might scream his frustration if he didn't keep his tone low and even. His eyes burned in their sockets however, the hatred behind them directed fully at me.

There was one thing that would really get to Vemrin at this stage. I lowered my eyes demurely, focusing on Baras while ignoring Vemrin archly. That kind of disregard—or give the appearance of doing so—is difficult for wounded pride to bear.

Baras gave a low chuckle. "Excuse Vemrin, Hellanix. He expected you to fall flat on your face."

Vemrin's cheeks turned blotchy. I'll bet he made boasts of one kind or another. If my read on Baras is remotely correct, he'll have been inciting Vemrin against me at every opportunity. Vemrin is the type easily goaded by those he perceives as authority figures whereas I respond to actual stimuli. Baras has been priming us both for this confrontation from the moment he first laid eyes on us. I just came into the game later than most.

He's a clever man, this Baras. Even when his ploys aren't exactly opaque, they are layered and complex.

"Don't mind Vemrin, Lord Baras," I noted sweetly, as if I didn't realize Vemrin was there to hear it, flexing the claws I knew I'd already sunk into Vemrin's skin. The war between us has been cold until now; I refuse to give up any opportunity to get under his skin, compromise his mind. That's one reason Sith are can be so chatty with their opponents, especially fellow Force-users: shiver a man's confidence, give a woman reason to doubt and their power is halved. It's a skill I've actively cultivated. "His world is burning down around him."

"The tension is thick between you two," Baras observed softly, as if to himself but definitely to the both of us. "A great source of emotion to feed off of. I wonder where it will take you…"

No question here: one of us ends up in a grave. Or a ditch. Or left in a ruin to rot. Regardless of technicalities, one of us will be very dead very soon and it will not be me—whatever Vemrin thinks to the contrary.

"You both stand on the precipice of becoming Sith but only one of you will have the opportunity to claim a special lightsaber and serve as my apprentice. I thought it would be you, Vemrin. But I've changed my mind." Baras topped this incensory remark off with a negligent wave of his hand.

Vemrin's anger exploded through the Force, searing at my defenses, forcing me to retreat within my own mind until I had a few more bunker walls between my perceptions and his outburst. It was an anger fueled by terror, one of the most potent kinds and scalded so badly I had trouble not showing my distress… or leaving said distress where an observer might sense it.

"What?" he demanded, dropping his patient dignity in favor of taking a distinctly aggressive stance. "I've done everything you've asked! Better than any of the others! The honor _should_ be mine!" His emotions rattled the air like a shuttle caught in turbulence.

"You see, Vemrin?" I goaded softly, finally dignifying him with my attention, forcing grim humor to siphon some of my mental discomfort away by increasing his. "I _always_ keep my promises."

I just _knew_ he was hearing my threats from that first meeting playing back in his head: ' _I'm going to take_ _everything_ _that is yours, Vemrin. I'm going to burn your world out from under you and then I'm going to kill you._ '

True, anger and fear will make him volatile which increases the danger he represents, but volatility is a sign of improper control. However much Sith rely on rage and anger, on fear and aggression, a Sith of the first class doesn't waste them by letting them get out of hand. A Sith without control over his emotions is easily overwhelmed by them, easily develops big blind spots.

It's the same with the Force: it exists, its power within reach but one cannot make proper use of it without _control_. To say a Sith—a good one—is undisciplined is untrue. The very best Sith control everything within themselves and, thus, effectively control things without as well. Regard the bearing and comportment of the members of the Dark Council: cold-blooded, implacable, nothing seems to touch them… until their assassins or apprentices or lackeys catch up with you. It's why they rarely do their own fighting and killing—outside of their machinations against one another—one is never quite sure what they are capable of.

"The Force is stronger with you, Hellanix. And a power sleeps inside you."

I didn't stop smug pride and amusement from coloring those layers Sith are almost always aware of—if only passively, the place of perception that Sith refer to when they say 'I sense your whatever.' The comment upon 'sleeping power' is, more often than not, a classical Sith figure of speech, meant to court the foolish. It doesn't really mean much.

Vemrin was nearly beside himself; if he could have he'd have slaughtered me on the spot—or tried to. I could hear it, an undulating screaming wail of fear and frustration echoing far away.

"Now, Vemrin," Baras commanded, his tone stern, brooking no argument. "Go wait in my meditation chamber for your instructions." He pointed at a door in the wall.

Vemrin balked.

" _This instant_ ," Baras almost snarled, his metal face turning to watch as Vemrin slunk into the other room. The Force snapped in the air, an imperative underscore to the order. I must say, Baras is quite adept with that. It's not any kind of compulsion, but it does aid in getting his points across in a way not easy to mistake.

The door to the meditation chamber shut with a barely-controlled bang. I don't doubt, Baras will have a pep talk for him once I'm gone. He's quite the manipulator, this Darth. I wonder how far he will succeed in manipulating _me_ before I catch on. I'll have to walk lightly if I end up rubbing elbows with him.

It will be an interesting experience.

"I hope you fathom how fortunate you are to be singled out, thus," Baras continued to me, his tone once more moderated to cool cordiality. "If you become my apprentice, the galaxy will bend before you."

An interesting bait to be certain. Not a promise of power but a promise of freedom to _exercise_ my power. He's got a decent read on me. He's _very_ dangerous, this Darth, but at least he's a master I can respect. I'll go farther with him than with Tremel, even if I only have opportunities to observe rather than come under true tutelage. He doesn't strike me as the teaching sort.

"Now, the lightsaber you seek is old and powerful, little more than legend."

There are still places in the Tombs that haven't been opened, puzzles not yet solved. In this case, I felt certain he was handing Vemrin and I an 'impossible task' the better to judge our mettle.

"It is locked in a hidden chamber, in the Tomb of Naga Sadow. Almost no one knows how to find the chamber entrance, but there is a Twi'lek in the holding pens who was caught trying to enter. I hear she is quite willful. Take her, make her open the chamber. Claim the weapon and return to me."

I waited for his gesture that I should leave before bowing at the waist and withdrawing.

It was late by this time, late enough that I began to feel the long day. Fortunately, I doubt Vemrin is in much better stead.

 **Korriban, Part XIII**

Head Jailor Knash had retired for the night when I arrived. The night guard immediately set off to fetch him—Darth Baras was that big a name among the Academy's staff.

I took advantage of the time to study the Twi'lek, a tiny creature, bird-frail and currently curled up in her holding pen. Her sleep was light, waiting for the next bad thing. I could sense the utter weariness in her—a weariness that went beyond physical limitations. This was a girl—woman, but just barely—who had beat her wings against the winds of life for so long that she was beginning to lose the strength to continue doing so.

"Bit late for a stroll, isn't it?" Knash asked grimly, looking sleepy, tousled and thoroughly irritated about it.

"Normally I would quite agree. However, what the Darth wishes…" I shrugged.

"I got it, I got it. Here, you!" Knash kicked the bars of the Twi'lek's cage with a loud clang that woke several of the other inmates of the room. She flinched, but when she sat up looking from him to me, it was clear she'd been awake before he sought to startle her out of sleep. She'd probably awakened when he started talking—his was the voice of a known threat.

"I'm to take this girl to the place where she was found," I declared, regarding the Twi'lek as she slowly got to her feet, her bright eyes flicking around my face, trying to get a read on me.

"Hn. Glad to be rid of her, myself. Pain in the neck, this one," Knash said darkly.

" _Who's_ a pain in the neck?" the Twi'lek demanded, making a face at Knash. " _I'm_ the one wearing a shock collar."

Wings beat against a cage.

Knash made her pay for her lip by employing said collar. But it wasn't as bad as it could have been, since he knew I needed her. It was just a little spite.

"Here," Knash fiddled with the control module before handing it to me. "Got it set to a high level. Use it enough, she'll show you the back door to her mother's house."

It would be an easy way to assure myself of cooperation. However, I don't yet know what value this girl represents; she may be useful in future. And I know Vemrin is going to make a try for my life—it's his last opportunity.

I stepped up to the pen, regarding the girl. "It isn't her mother's house that interests me. Do I really need to be so gauche?" I asked, thumb poised threateningly over the activation button as I fixed her violet gaze with my own.

The Twi'lek's brow crinkled as she shook her head, eyes fixed on the control module. She hiked on a brave face, then rolled her shoulders. "I can play tomb tour guide—a lot of work went into cracking that nut. Like to see something come out of it."

"Good girl. Jailor Knash, if you would…?" I moved, indicating he should unlock the cell.

As soon as he had, the Twi'lek slipped out of it, moving so I stood between her and Knash.

Good. She recognizes protection when she sees it. Her safety for her help. To my pleasure, I didn't feel that she was actually cowed. It was simply a case when fighting the wind was inadvisable. After all, one always wonders what is in a locked box and she has the opportunity to see what's in this locked chamber.

Escape isn't wise, so satiated curiosity would have to do.

 **Conclusion**

"And that was it," Her Lordship concluded. "Vette did as she was told and Baras put her into my service. I killed Vemrin and joined Darth Baras' retinue."

I nodded. Some of Vette's loyalty made sense: Her Lordship was in no way soft, but she didn't need to bludgeon an already battered person into line. By extending that perception of being kinder—by comparison—than most, she'd secured the girl's goodwill and eventually her loyalty.

That's a pattern with Her Lordship: she'll ask politely once… but the whole time, you just _know_ she could easily skip that step and _force_ you to obey. Either way, she'll get what she wants. The only question is how painful you make it for yourself. It's all one to her.

"Did Vemrin die well?"

"He died quickly. He might have had better odds if he hadn't waited until I had the lightsaber in my hand." She patted the weapon on her right hip. "He, at least, was smart enough to try a sneak attack. No preamble, nothing. Just out of the blue—or would have been had his emotions not betrayed him. I felt them quite clearly before he tried to pounce."

I nodded at this, her strictures about control echoing in my ears.

"Now—" she stopped looking past me and waving the Captain—I was learning the feel of him, even when I couldn't see him—into the room. "Yes, Quinn?"

"Pardon the interruption, my lord, but you have a holocall. Moff Sarek is requesting to speak with you—he says he obtained your holo-frequency from Moff Thorne," the Captain announced.

"Uncle Tim? That's interesting…" Her Lordship got to her feet. "Thank you, Quinn. Jaesa, excuse me a moment. I'll be back shortly."

"Of course, my master." I watched her go, then looked back to the maintenance of my gear, realizing that I'd stopped looking to it: I was only halfway finished, while Her Lordship's things were all folded and piled up neatly, only to be scooped up by Tuvi, who had come to hover probably just waiting to be able to put her things away.

 **On Sketchy Help**

"Okay, you want to explain this for me?" Vette asked.

I flicked out a hand and deflected (rather than caught) the ball she lobbed at me. "That one was luck," I grimaced. "I'm reaching out with my senses."

"So why the balls?"

The point of the exercise? Missing it. "Because I know when they hit me," I sighed.

She lobbed one at me and it pinged off my butt, much to Vette's amusement. "Sorry," she chuckled. "Sorry, I'll be serious."

Right. Sure. Maybe I shouldn't have asked her for help…

"Still. Pelting you with balls?"

I caught that one. "You're talking. It tells me where you are."

"Start catching them regularly and maybe I'll shut up."

"I'd like to see that," I grumbled.

"Apart from you not seeing much of anything right now," Vette quipped back, "practice more."

Some days that girl…

I caught the ball… then fumbled it. I took a deep breath, trying to focus the irritation. I didn't have a lot of luck with Her Lordship, this is only my second attempt with this particular tech—

"Ow!" I yanked the silk cloths off my head (grabbing several strands of hair and, judging by the pain, ripping them out). "Just forget it," I snapped, waving a hand and sending a highly Force-accelerated ball at Vette.

The Twi'lek yelped, but the ball stopped centimeters from her chest.

" _No_ ," Her Lordship said darkly. I winced, not having realized she was there. "If you must return fire, Jaesa, you will do so manually. Vette, if you cannot be serious when Jaesa comes to you for help, then decline to participate. This conversation will not be repeated." With that, the ball menacing Vette dropped and Her Lordship continued on.

I bit my lip, flushed with embarrassment and frustration both, angry tears stinging my eyes. "I'm sorry I nearly maimed you," I announced in a tightly controlled voice. "But I think I'll just practice by myself for a while."

Vette, slightly drooping, set the bag of balls down and withdrew. For a moment I thought she meant to apologize for not taking something serious seriously, but at the last minute she slipped out through the door. I picked up one of the balls, then walked over to the nearest training droid and turned it on.

"Yes, Mistress Jaesa?" it asked.

"Can you throw a ball without killing me?"

"Affirmative."

"Good." At least droids don't chatter.

 **On Lightsabers**

I trembled in nervous excitement where I stood as Her Lordship laid out her lightsabers on the counter, having turned down the power setting. When she looked at me expectantly, I did the same and put it down. It looked chunky and heavy compared to the light, compact hilts of her own weapons.

What I'd never noticed, since they usually have her hands wrapped around them, was that the hilts both had a kind of contoured grip, as if someone wrapped it in some kind of memory medium while she used the weapon, then used it as a mold to produce a contoured plate so her hand fit the thing like a glove.

"You may hold it," she handed me her main-hand lightsaber. "Be careful with the activation button."

A lightsaber is a very personal item; even I knew not to handle someone else's outside of extremes without permission.

The contoured piece was more of a pad with a silvery finish, conforming to the shape of her hand from long use. It also had a slight texture, as if designed to work as an anti-slip measure, since she usually wore gloves. "Do you have to change the pad often?"

"Every so often. I'm going to recommend you make use of them yourself. Your hands are still soft. The more protection you can put on them while they toughen, the better off you'll be. It takes longer, but it's safer. Why a double-ended weapon?"

My chuckle was rueful. "I had a way of turning around when anything startled me. The Jedi don't… weapons of this model aren't popular. It's 'more aggressive' than is considered seemly." She snorted at this, but said nothing. "So, since I had this thing about whipping around, Karr thought it would be best to capitalize on it and spoke to my instructors."

"Reasonable," Her Lordship nodded. "You should physically touch the inner workings as little as possible. The pieces are delicate, so use the Force to manipulate them. You should also check them before you embark on an operation and when you get back. Also, carry a box with some of the parts most likely to give out."

From the bag she usually wore at her hip, which she'd put on the counter, she withdrew a small metal box. When she opened it, I found the lid and bottom lined with foam. The foam was a memory-medium, containing several spare parts packed in close together.

"May I?" she asked.

"What?" Her hands poised over my lightsaber and it took me a moment to realize she was asking permission to handle it. "Oh, of course."

First, she inspected the casing. "It's shameful they gave you one without teaching you how it works or what goes in it," she observed dryly. "Acolytes learn that long before they'll ever use one."

I didn't wince or flinch; although spoken to me, it wasn't a criticism of me.

"This is for you," she declared, picking up a large white sheet of cloth, which she shook out and spread over the counter. In her own bold handwriting were various identifications—focus crystal, power field conductor, field energizers, that sort of thing—each accompanied by a circle. I assumed I was supposed to match the pieces to the labels.

She set the weapon down and held out her hands. The Force twisted around her, the lightsaber lifted and began disassembling itself, parts separating neatly into their labeled spaces.

I'd never appreciated how complicated the weapon's inner workings were, and could see why she said to use the Force to manipulate the parts: some of them were so small, I'd feel ham-handed if I had to hold them, let alone try to place them.

"And, for comparison," she stripped down her own lightsaber in less time than it took to do mine. That was just familiarity, though. For the most part the interior workings looked fairly similar.

"If I may?"

She nodded.

"Why two lightsabers?"

Her mouth twisted into a smile. "I like to be prepared. When you block a blow, your opponent often leaves himself open in one way or another. And if I'm separated from my main hand weapon, it's better to have something in reserve than not. Also, it's intimidating."

The power crystal was a rich red, round with an iridescent sheen. It made me think of folds and layers of heavy silk.

"It's a Krayt Dragon pearl," Her Lordship noted, picking it up and handing it to me. "Expensive, but not as fragile as the crystals most Sith use. It was a graduation gift."

I knew Krayt Dragons were indigenous to Tatooine. Being big, nasty pieces of work, they weren't something just any big game hunter would want to tangle with. Therefore, their 'pearls'—stones polished in their gizzards—were highly sought after and exceptionally expensive. I also knew that Sith liked synthetic red crystals rather than the naturally-occurring ones the Jedi preferred. In some ways, the natural ones are more stable, but the synthetic crystals pack more of a punch once incorporated into the weapon (and, therefore, a secure setting).

I handed the pearl back to her, and she returned it to the array of components. It didn't surprise me to discover such an unusual alternative to a normal lightsaber crystal. Her family is well to do and her father believes that her tools should match her aptitude.

"Now, I'm going to go over everything, but you're not expected to remember it all right away. Simply pay attention and we'll see what sticks."

I was glad she didn't expect perfect recall. There were so many little pieces; the one thing that stuck was the one thing she warned me about as being the leading cause of death among Sith building their first weapon: _don't invert the emitter matrix_. Apparently explosions were common. Although she'd known the internal workings of a lightsaber for most of her life, even she still put a little mark on the emitter to ensure beyond error that it always went in correctly.

It was not just, as I expected, a 'this is this, that is that' sort of lesson. She seemed to have anecdotes about half the inner workings, ranging from cautionary tales, to amusing mistakes (of others), to notable examples of the piece—like how the length adjuster and arc tip regulator could be used to create specialized weapons. Hence why Marka Ragnos is always portrayed with a curving blade rather than a straight one.

All in all, my head felt full of cotton batting when she was done, but I remembered not to invert the emitter matrix (and what it looked like), and to pay attention to the _shape_ of the crystals inside the lightsaber—the power crystal and the focusing crystal—and not to their color. A focusing crystal was just that, and apparently color didn't matter when trying to tell it apart from the power crystal. She knew someone who used a purple lightsaber, but that was because the power crystal was red and the focus crystal a rich blue, not because the power crystal was, itself, purple.

I didn't know that was even a thing.

Unsurprising.


	15. Chapter 15

**An Exercise in Domination I**

"Jaesa! We're leaving!" Her Lordship called, her tone full of calm command.

I checked my lightsaber to ensure it was no longer on the practice setting and hurried to find her speaking to the Captain at the airlock door. Her Lordship hadn't told me where we were going and treated our destination as a kind of surprise, so my interest was thoroughly aroused. Even the Captain had almost bemusedly refused to drop even a hint beyond 'You should find it engaging.'

The bridge, I discovered without actually being _told_ , was understood to be more or less a girl-free zone. Her Lordship, being a _woman_ (rather than because it's her ship), was allowed into the Captain's private retreat if she chose to enter. I didn't miss that she rarely intruded. I suppose on a shipful of females, a man needs his space.

From what I did manage to gather, Her Lordship's chat with Moff Sarek decided her on going wherever we'd gone and that whatever called her here was a brilliant opportunity of some kind.

Vette, also not let in on the secret (either because she'd blow it or because she'd tease me to the point of doing something foolish—her sense of when to quit isn't always well-calibrated), had already disembarked. For me, this was all work; for her, it was more or less free time.

I didn't mind.

"By all means, Captain," Her Lordship said soothingly. "Tuvi has already delivered the luggage and returned. We should be here for a week or ten days, I think, at the very least. I can afford to be stranded here that long before I kill someone I shouldn't. I'll holo Vette and advise her of the change in plans."

Or Vette will holo her, gleefully announcing that the Captain 'stole' the ship.

"My lord—" the Captain began. It's never safe to assume Her Lordship is joking when she says things like that.

"Quinn." Her Lordship laid her hand on the Captain's elbow, just a delicate brush of fingers that made his aura snap like a blown lightbulb. She doesn't initiate physical contact with him very often, hence the resultant 'snap' when she did so now, despite the touch being light and perfectly innocuous.

I found myself fighting the urge to blush and look away. Sometimes those two…

"You should take your droids, my lord," the Captain said simply, his aura burning with _want_ but chained by an icy self-denial that could make a Jedi proud.

Her Lordship's smile was full of coquetry to which she did not give voice. Instead she withdrew her hand from the Captain's arm and adjusted her glove. "Keep them. Let them look after you while you're gone. Now, go. Save your man." Her Lordship beckoned me to follow her, and led me off the ship into the ship's hangar and what turned out to be the Rhu Caenus spaceport.

I grimaced mentally. It was strange to be back on Alderaan when I wasn't the same person who left it. I felt more like Jaesa Willsaam's happier twin than like Jaesa Willsaam. Now I knew why Her Lordship and the Captain were so closed-mouthed. Knowing I was coming back here? It wouldn't have done me any favors. I'd have been an anxious, nervy wreck.

"Ah, Jaesa." Her Lordship purred, stopping at the spaceport-side of the door leading to the hangar from which the Captain was exiting. "I'm pleased to say I've found something constructive for us to do, which brings us back to this little mudball. Something from which I hope you will benefit _immensely_."

I knew better than to ask what the Captain was up to. It was enough that I knew Her Lordship had authorized what sounded like a rescue mission. "Does it involve razing anything to the ground?" I asked, imagining Castle Organa as a blazing heap of rubble.

"Little baby steps," Her Lordship answered indulgently. "Unfortunately, no. As you know, I was contacted by a certain Moff. Apparently, he knows Uncle Tim and has had report of me from a Sith acquaintance of mine. This Moff has put in a request that I aid the Empire by going into politics. Politics are something you should learn from the position of one affecting them. Also, the strategic applications of force and honey. As _Dahdee_ said: _Carry a carrot in your dealings. If those you treat with will not accept the carrot as an incentive, freeze it and beat them with it until they submit._ "

I laughed at this, especially having met Lord Augustine. Although, I had to admit that effecting change in Alderaan's politics seemed like trying to shovel out a stable using a fork. A _dessert_ fork. "May I ask what we're doing with their politics, my lord?" It was one of those touchy questions. It wasn't that I was afraid of her snapping if she thought I was questioning her, I just didn't want it to sound like I was.

Her Lordhsip looked quite unperturbed, which made me wonder if nervousness about asking such questions was a relic of my earlier life. "We're going to show these guppies what it is to be a shark. Apparently, the current Thul administrator—Jorad, the Moff called him—has misplaced his backbone. Among other things."

"If he ever had one," I answered sullenly. I spent enough time on the fringes of the nobility to discover how soft they are compared to the breed of noble on Dromund Kaas… even though I'd only seen Her Lordship's family.

"Indeed, if he ever had one," Her Lordship nodded. "But first, I wish to discuss the matter, so you understand why we do what we do."

"I'm all attention."

She looked around as though to make sure we continued to be left to our own devices. Her casual glance sent several sapients scuttling for cover, whether they'd been loitering to eavesdrop or not.

"Come, sit with me." She led us to a bench and settled upon it, ladylike in spite of her leathers and greasepaint. "This is not technically a Sith affair, even if there is a Sith who handles things like diplomacy and expansionism. However, it is an affair of the Empire. You have heard me tell you that Sith interests are complex."

I nodded. Darth Ravage handles expansion and diplomacy, but when she said 'not a Sith affair' I took it to mean 'no Sith have been charged with handling this.' It didn't surprise me: Alderaan is rich, but not much else. It's hard to be diplomatic if one reaches one's limit and starts slaughtering idiots wholesale. It's a legitimate concern (and thy the Captain got antsy when Her Lordship mentioned killing someone she oughtn't). So my answer of 'kill your way through the chain of command until the chain caves to your wishes' was clearly _not_ what Her Lordship had in mind. I was glad I kept the first-impulse thought to myself.

"In this case, we look at the situation in a broader sense than many Sith—those outside the Dark Council and some of their immediate adherents—would. Gaining control of Alderaan is like gaining control of Balmorra." She cast me a questioning look. "I believe you spoke with Vette about it."

I didn't ask how, but I sensed she was glad I'd taken the initiative to do some homework. "More territory. More room for our philosophy to spread, access to more resources—and control over any Force sensitives those planets produce," I answered after a moment's thought.

"Yes. So you see that aiding the Imperials and their interests indirectly affects the interests of our Order."

I nodded, aware that Her Lordship was looking farther into the future than the Jedi would credit a Sith for doing. Then again, from what I can tell her master is the same way.

"You will have undoubtedly noticed, by this point, that many Sith disregard anyone and anything outside our immediate Order. They think it a waste of time to aid the affairs of the military or to pay attention to anything that is not directly beneficial to themselves."

I had noticed. Most Sith look down on non-Sensitives, even clever and multitalented ones like the Captain. The way Sith often involve themselves with the military does nothing but cost the Empire in the long run. I wonder that the Dark Council, with their broader views, tolerates it. Maybe they like the challenges presented; maybe it keeps idiots from trying to be clever.

What Her Lordship believes is that without an Empire to rule, the Sith Order would find itself suddenly and strangely irrelevant. Thus it really is in Sith interests to strengthen the Empire however we can—the relationship between Sith and Imperials, as Her Lordship sees it, is very symbiotic*.

It's like playing _Gambit_. This broad picture thinking is what will allow Her Lordship to rise to greatness. She forges paths to offer least resistance, not so she can use them today but so they will be ready tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. Moreover, she uses resources her peers wouldn't stoop to think about, which is why her groundwork will bite them in the backside every time.

"It helps, also, to have minions no one in the Order will scrutinize overmuch," I noted.

"Ah!" Her Lordship brought her hands together once. "I was hoping you would notice that. You arrived at it much more quickly than I expected."

I beamed inwardly, trying to keep the pride off my face. I must have failed, for Her Lordship gave an indulgent chuckle.

"So. Expound for me, please, the background logic of why we are involving ourselves with this Moff and Jorad Thul."

I paused to consider it, knowing that she would let me think and would disapprove it I just threw an answer out there, un-pondered, unconsidered. "Anything that deprives the Republic of the economic resources is beneficial to us. And the strategic placement of Alderaan certainly is. Oh, and it's certainly a major world within the Republic: take it away and they look weak. They can't hold onto what they have." She nodded her approval, but said nothing. "We, the Sith, expand our influence. The military gains materiel and personnel. With weak leaders, there are puppets aplenty to be goaded or cajoled into ruling as the disembodied and vaguely defined 'we' see fit, setting up precedents for the next generations of rulers. Thus, we move away from puppets to people loyal to the Empire and able to manage affairs on their own."

"Very good. Continue."

It's a very good thing I didn't give my first plan for dealing with Alderaan. Looking back, I can see how wasteful it would have been. Wasteful and counterproductive, even if I personally might find it satisfying. Her Lordship hates unnecessary wastefulness.

"There is a direct benefit to _you_ , however," I continued in a tone so quiet she had to lean towards me to hear. "This Moff and even Lord Jorad will remember that you helped them when you were under no obligation to do so. It is probable one or both will owe you something for preserving the status quo—or advancing their positions. You can ask favors in return without having to leverage them by force, which paints you in a good light. Knowing you're amiable to at least listening to a Moff's requests—whether or not you accede to any of them in future—means you gain esteem within the military. I suspect that, after this, both men would show more care for your interests than they might, say, for the Sith who causes them difficulties. Better a unit of willing volunteers than a battalion of unwilling conscripts."

She did not make me refine the general point, which was a very fine point and intricately nuanced indeed. Sometimes the extra few milligrams of additional attention to one person's interests over those of another is enough to result in a greater success than the bare minimum might afford.

"Do you know what this is?" Her Lordship asked, holding up a silver crescent thing I'd marked her carrying but hadn't paid much attention to. She handed it to me so I could see it properly and examine it.

I didn't even need to pick it up to know what it was: you see them everywhere on Dromund Kaas. "It's a shock collar." I have no idea where she got it… unless it's the one Vette doesn't wear. It was heavy and ominous in my hands. I found I didn't like handling it… until I reminded myself it's just a hunk of metal and circuitry. It doesn't bite.

"Yes."

"Who's it for?"

Her Lordship beamed at me. "That's entirely up to you. Time to sharpen your claws, my apprentice."

 **An Exercise in Domination II**

I'd never seen the Rhu Caenus Spaceport, having been affiliated with House Organa, but I'd heard of it. When Karr took me away from Alderaan, we made use of Pallista Spaceport, which was—and still is—Republic territory. Rhu Caenus had the stamp of Imperial order to it, a certain something I was beginning to notice when I entered a place. I don't think I could have described it for someone—it was just a certain something that screamed _an Imperial garrison should be here_. In fact, there probably _was_ an Imperial garrison somewhere nearby.

Her Lordship led us to the first upscale cantina that presented itself. She gave the impression of knowing her way around the spaceport, seeming quite as at home there as she did anywhere else. While she ordered us each a glass of something fruity and nonalcoholic, I scanned the crowd.

Her Lordship's theory for teaching was that sometimes I needed to observe and sometimes I needed to be thrown into the pool willy-nilly so I could get out on my own. It was much like a mother cat teaching her kittens how to hunt: the mother cat wounds a small animal—a squirrel or a mouse—and brings it back to her litter so they can experience live prey without that prey getting away. In this case, the experience was for me to forcibly remove someone's will to fight back, to pick a total stranger and put him or her into a bad position for no reason other than because Her Lordship commanded it.

I won't lie: I was a little queasy about the whole thing. I even had the shakes as my nerves reacted to what I was being asked—told—to do versus how I was brought up. It helped me that there's really no finer class of people for this sort of treatment than Alderaanian nobility.

Most especially though, I didn't want to bungle it somehow. Fortunately, Her Lordship seems to have all the patience in the world for me.

In the Republic, shock collars like the one weighing heavy in my hand are as illegal as anything can be. They're considered one of the worst inventions in the history of ever and are often pointed out as one of the damning things about the Empire, proof-positive about how 'wrong' the Empire is.

However, having lived with Alderaan's nobility, I found I had fewer scruples about slapping that heavy piece of metal on one of them than I might on someone else—say, Vette, or anyone who didn't really deserve the threat of pain or need it as motivation.

As I pondered, I found my annoyance increasing. These nobles are the type to think they suffer because their sheets aren't silk, or because their fashion is a month out of date, or because they're down to one seasonal retreat. They don't know a thing about suffering. Not really. So as a result the suffering of this nameless noble wasn't high on my list of concerns. They're all cut from the same cloth, anyway.

It's a learning experience, as Her Lordship said.

I was so caught up in my morose thoughts that I paid a little less attention to the room than I should have. I didn't realize I'd been standing there, jaw clenched, long enough for Her Lordship to order and hand over a green drink, match to her own, with a straw—she always uses a straw so as not to disarrange her lipstick. She sipped at it slowly, her orange eyes scanning the crowd with something bordering on disinterest.

I swallowed, remembering that I was no longer a serving girl or a Jedi, but a Sith, apprenticed to a rising star in that Order. My behavior as a servant was said to reflect upon my mistress. I'll admit I kept some of that mindset: if people judge a master by her apprentice, then it is imperative that I make the right impressions. The difference between serving Her Lordship and serving Gesselle is that I present my best face by choice, not by adherence to propriety alone.

The glass was cold in my hand as I looked at the room again, this time with my special gift. What I 'saw' nearly made me vomit with disgust. Surely there is no lower class of people than the nobility of Alderaan. They forget that nobility has another meaning and the Captain is quite right: if the blood here is blue, it's due to a lack of oxygen.

I swallowed, but felt buoyed up by the sheer disgust I felt for the nobles in the room with their pettiness, their overbearing arrogance—arrogance with no more basis than a name that had weight a hundred years ago because of a great man's or woman's deeds.

I knew Her Lordship would see the shakes, however hard I tried to hide them… but disgust helped quell them, helped beat back the part of me recoiling from what I was about to do.

For once I wasn't recoiling from something I was about to do simply because someone else required it. This wasn't being the good daughter and marrying the right man. This wasn't being the good apprentice and swallowing whatever crap was being shoveled my way that day. This wasn't standing by while my world burned down around me.

This was for my betterment; I could _see_ how it was for my betterment. This advanced no one but me, because Her Lordship was quite capable on her own and could do it better than I could. She abstained however, because I needed to learn. She was letting me grow, unfettered, unstifled… for that reason alone I would do almost anything she asked, not because I felt I _had_ to or _ought_ to, but because I _chose_ to. _Wanted_ to.

She must have noted something in my posture change, for she announced blandly, "I'll be here if you require my assistance, and I shall wrangle him on the next stage of his journey. All you have to do is collar him."

Not that she couldn't or wouldn't. In fact, from her easy posture, I just _know_ she's ready to block escape routes if I bungle the job. I suppose if I do… she'll contain the situation, then make me pick up where I left off or lost control.

Control. It's all about control, an iron grip on a situation, on self, that allows action while resisting paralysis.

My shakes eased.

"Thank you, my lord. I won't be long." I turned on my heel, aware of her amused approval at my back. At first, my thought was to just walk up to the nearest loudmouth and slap the collar on him—the ambiance in the room made me feel that way.

Two steps forward, I reflected. Her Lordship doesn't believe in random attacks. In fact, I wouldn't put it past her to ask me why I picked whomever I picked—in which case, I would be very embarrassed at having to admit 'I chose at random from a room full of legitimate targets.'

It required my special gift, since I didn't have the trained eyes Her Lordship did. I had to shove down perplexity; Her Lordship called my gift a parlour trick once. Since then, she's never mentioned it again. It's like she doesn't care about how much it could help her. It bothers me that she ignores it so much, since it's the only particularly unique, especially useful, thing I can offer in her service.

I brought my hands together, scraping together true focus rather than the 'glance' I'd paid the place moments before. I looked for _disquiet_. _Discontent_. _Rebelliousness_. The sorts of things that erode the effectiveness of the Imperial reach on Alderaan but which could hide beneath the bile-raising pettiness and poor attitudes. I picked the brightest example in the room and stalked forward, loosening the collar in my hand.

"Excuse me." I stopped just in the man's peripheral vision.

He cast me a half look before waving me off. "No refills, thank you."

I felt myself smiling as I darted forward, grabbed his hair in one hand while drawing upon the Force to augment my own strength. Thus bolstered, I bashed his head against the table before slapping the collar onto him as he slid groaning to the ground.

…that was easy… remarkably so…

"Get up. You're not really hurt," I declared in cool imitation of Her Lordship as the man twisted and moaned, covering a rapidly-forming bruise across his brow.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Her Lordship's voice cut across the room like a peal of thunder despite the fact that she never actually raised her voice. She was pointing with an unignited lightsaber at a cluster of nobles who looked ready to jump to their comrade's defense. "Officers. Please return to your tables. Intervention is _quite_ unnecessary."

I had to look around, because the nobles were certainly not officers.

The officers were just out of my line of sight. They gave the impression of having eased to standing once I started causing a scene. They slid back into their chairs without protest, watching with vague interest as I wrenched the whining noble to his feet.

"Stand up or I'll give you a _reason_ to flop around like an eel," I growled.

It took effort, but I got my captured noble over to where Her Lordship stood, her empty drink standing by my half-empty one on the bar. "My lord. The gentleman you requested."

"Thank you, Jaesa. Did you have any particular inspiration for choosing this one?" she asked, taking his chin in her hand in order to examine his forming bruise. She did it more as though admiring the damage than worrying about it. that he simply stiffened rather than try to jerk away from her touch said something about his perceptions of danger.

"I sensed he was less than thrilled by Imperial courtesy. So I thought that an object lesson might be of benefit to him."

"An object lesson?" she asked, her amusement coloring the air.

"A lesson to which he objects," I returned smoothly.

Her Lordship laughed outright at this, teeth brilliantly white against the lip color she wore. "There's that glittering wit of yours. Like a razor but so much more elegant."

I didn't beam under the praise, but I wanted to. I've heard the saying before, but this was my first time using it in conversation.

"Now, let's get on with our task, shall we? Fight me," Her Lordship redirected herself to the collared noble, her tone growing hard, "and I will make this," she flicked his bruising forehead, "a happy memory. Now. Walk." She seized him by the shoulder of his jacket and began propelling him forward.

I followed Her Lordship's progress out of the silent cantina, into the bright light of the bustling mercantile district attached to the spaceport. People stared, but no one stopped Her Lordship or seemed to want to be caught watching.

"Excellent work, Jaesa," Her Lordship observed. "Now, how did it feel?"

I considered. Sith are big about how things _feel_. Is it pleasurable? Is it painful? Is it enraging? Can you _use_ it? "To be honest, it's just business, my lord. Although it was, perhaps, overdramatic to slam his head into the table." It seemed like the thing to do at the time. I knew, I think, what she was really asking: did I have any qualms? "I sensed the disloyalty in him. Better him than some random warm body… yes?" I glanced nervously at her out of the corners of my eyes.

"Oh, completely correct," Her Lordship answered. "Your logic is faultless. Now, from here on in I want you to observe and to learn."

I didn't need to say it, but I did. "I'm all attention, my lord."

"Good." With her free hand she fished out her holocom, punching in a recipient with her thumb. "Moff Sarek. I'm heading for Jorad Thul's chambers, now. You may wish to hack the nearest terminal to observe the conversation."

Because, of course, using hers would make it seem like she was on a leash; that's not a wise or favorable perception to present. Fortunately, the Moff was smart enough to take a hint.

 **An Exercise in Domination III**

Jorad Thul's audience chamber was of classical Alderaanian style: it was big, opulent, and pretentious. In fact, that description rather accurately described Jorad himself. He was a big man, was probably fit once, but gone flabby with easy living and not a lot of exercise. He dressed with extravagance—I could tell just by looking that his clothes were tailor-made of expensive materials.

He cut such a stark contrast to Her Lordship when she is 'off duty.' He wore his wealth rather than give the impression of _being_ the object of great expense. I found myself once more appreciating how soft the Alderaanian nobility really is. Then again, Her Lordship is Sith and has much more sense than this nerf in silk trappings.

Her Lordship sailed into the room, still wrangling the now-bleating noble with that one hand on his arm. It looked like she would simply wrench his shoulder out of its socket if he fought her too hard. Her Lordship used the collar, I'm sure, for the benefit of the non-Sith. _She_ doesn't need a collar to hurt him; dislocating his shoulder with enough torque and the Force is more efficient than a burst with the shock collar. He can walk with a dislocated shoulder, but he'd have to recollect his wits with the collar which would slow his progress (also Her Lordship's by extension).

That seemed to be one of her tricks: the Force can be used to terrify people by presenting them an unknown, something mystical they don't really understand. But to use something they understand to frighten or intimidate can be just as effective—namely because she's not the only one who can do it if she demonstrates it. Anyone following in her footsteps can do it—whatever it is—too.

Thus, the collar represents something tangible as well as comprehensible—the tool of the Empire while not even a toy to the Sith. Pursuant to Her Lordship's instructions, I moved to stand beside one of the great pillars supporting the ceiling in order to watch. She paused long enough to make sure she sensed where I was, then went on with our business.

Those gathered in the chamber parted for her, like water around a shark. Her ease of motion, the slow control of it, the threat of what she represented, it turned all the auras in the room to a mushy nausea and tingly apprehension of the unpleasant sort. Fear shadowed the corners while sickened fascination popped intermittently in bright flashes. She stood out strangely among the nobility assembled, all black and red and pale, all muscle and power, dressed for fighting and thoroughly armed. Yet she retained poise and elegance, two things these nobles would recognize and—however repellant they might find her—appreciate.

"I—what—you! Chrimar! Chrimar Noven! That-that's a free nobleman of Alderaan!" Jorad sputtered. "Unhand him at once!" He rose to his feet in a surge of motion. While he towered over Her Lordship—both because of stature and because his chair was on a raised dais—he lacked the same sense of power radiating from him which is so innate to Her Lordship.

Her Lordship was well versed in the art of intimidation; she used it now, bending it on the whole room as she regarded him.

The crowd edged away from Her Lordship, giving her a big empty semicircle in which to stand. Several of the nobles towards the back edged out of sight and out of the room, escaping the impending explosion.

Her Lordship cocked her head; I could feel her smiling even though I couldn't see it. She suddenly kicked at one of Noven's knees, causing him to crumple to the ground with a shriek, smashing his forehead into the floor because she released him completely. She sardonically held her hands out to the side as though to say 'see? Hands off.'

My mouth twisted into a smile as I waited by my pillar. Well-played, my master.

Suddenly, the large holoterminal on Jorad's right went off. The sound was strangely eerie, despite—or maybe because of—its upbeat chirp.

"Master. Moff Sarek is requesting an open channel," one of the attending droids announced. "Shall I put him through?"

"No-no. I'm in the middle of a meeting," Jorad huffed, eying Her Lordship with wary dislike.

"Are you certain you would not like to answer that?" Her Lordship asked, giving Noven a boot between the shoulders as he struggled to get up, causing his abused brow to hit the ground again. "Do _not_ test me," she declared to the downed nobleman.

"Who-who do you think you are?" Jorad's demanded. "Why are you doing this? W-what's this about?"

The holoterminal went off again.

"Master. Moff Sarek is demanding an open channel. He said it is vital to your continued safety," the droid declared.

"I _strongly_ suggest you answer it," Her Lordship noted in her most dangerously calm tone. She lifted a hand, held it poised, fingers curved delicately as if she were about to take hold of something in thin air. No one doubted what it meant when a Sith did something like that: something bad.

Jorad, trying hard to look as though he wasn't intimidated, activated the uplink. It was a decent attempt, I'll give him that.

Of all assembled, I was the only one who knew Her Lordship's gesture was empty, meant only for show. Still, it just went to show that sometimes mystique and fear produced as good a result as actually exerting oneself.

" _Lord Jorad. I see you've met with Her Lordship,_ " the Moff declared darkly. " _Thank you, Lord Hellanix, for your leniency with him. I can only imagine how taxing you've found his slowness in cooperating."_

"If you wish to join the Empire," Her Lordship directed to Jorad, still in that low voice but with an increasing weight of austere displeasure, "you should take more care to recognize those in power." Especially when she makes no attempt to be discreet about what she is.

The crowd shared a collective shudder; it couldn't be plainer that most of them had never seen a Sith before. If so, then how fortunate Her Lordship is their first encounter. I caught a few of them turning towards me, curiosity rippling. With a smile that promised only pain—or I hoped it did—I motioned them to redirect their attention where it ought to be.

"I-I…" Jorad stuttered. "My lord, I—" He lurched into a kind of half-bow, completely unsure how to appease what he perceived as an angry Sith.

Her Lordship shifted her hand from the menace of an impending action though the Force to a request for silence.

Too bad Noven picked that moment for his bravado. He managed to roll to his knees, facing Her Lordship so she would have a little more trouble knocking him over again. His words were for Jorad, however. "All of Alderaan will be thrown into chains because of y—"

" _Silence_." Her Lordship did not raise her voice. The razor-edged hiss was not lost, despite the scream that Noven let out as Her Lordship, in cold blood, depressed the trigger on the shock collar's remote. Noven screamed, writhing for several protracted moments before Her Lordship released him from the agony. She didn't look at him even once, simply watched Lord Jorad—unblinkingly too, if I had to guess, those orange eyes boring into his.

Her Lordship's aura twitched once as Noven started screaming, but evened out. I could sense her dislike of the crude object the collar was, and found I agreed. Rubbing my fingers together, I realized that a Sith's lightning was much more effective since a Sith had far more control over the degree of pain being inflicted. It was far more precise to utilize the Force than any manmade toy.

I didn't like watching… but it was rather fascinating in a grotesque sort of way.

Most of the people around me felt more or less the same way.

"You may address me as 'my lord.'" Through our bond, I felt her calling for me, silently intimating that I should join her. When I did, she motioned to me, "This is my apprentice, Jaesa. Be wise."

I took it to mean 'speak nicely.'

"My lord… ah… my lady." Clearly he didn't know how to address me.

It made me appreciate the Captain. He's always courtesy and deference in public, even to me, but even if he uses 'my lord' for both of us it's always obvious which of us he means. Jorad didn't quite have that elegance in speech; I doubted he would develop it anytime soon.

From my new position, I could see the hologram of the Moff more clearly. He was younger than I expected, with thick hair that might have been brown, and a pointy beard that made me think of a big, fat, furry caterpillar-thing dangling precariously off his chin. Like the Captain though, he was lean and fit, a man who kept himself well-maintained in case of trouble he needed to handle personally.

"I've said before that being too harsh might stir greater rebellion." Jorad kept looking at the hologram rather than at Her Lordship, as if he thought that the Moff could call her off. All around us, the crowd's attention fixed on Her Lordship as if her conversation was the only thing in the world. A mix of sickness, awe, fear, and uncertainty passed through and around them.

"You were right to contact me, Moff Sarek. Things are much worse than I feared," Her Lordship noted.

Voices blurred at the edges as I studied Jorad.

 _He's entrenched in Alderaanian politics—weak. Flaccid. A muscle that has lost any strength it ever had. He's a weak leader, good for us bad for him, personally. He's terrified of Her Lordship but terrified of letting anyone else smell blood in the water. He knows he can be replaced and by his own people before the Empire could get to him. He wants the glory but isn't willing to do what must be done. He hopes that the technicalities of war—as it's understood in this world—will allow him to painlessly reap benefits. His bowels are as weak as his mind and that is a problem right now._

"This spineless toad will make a poor lord of Alderaan," Her Lordship grated out. She wasn't using a Force trick on the spectators. She simply had the sort of presence to hold them almost spellbound.

Immersed in my reading as I was, her voice had a strange quality… as if the words were images in my mind, each one ringed with color and visible sonic compressions. I'd discovered it on my own how horrifically unaware of my surroundings I became when using my gift—not a good thing. Now, I used opportunities—mostly random civilians around Kaas City or the Academy while I was there—to train myself to take my readings, as I'd begun to call it, without losing touch with reality… or being overwhelmed by it.

A shark in a tropical fish display, indeed. So this was what her life on Dromund Kaas was like. No wonder she left.

" _Yes, my lord. It will take work to shape him. Now that you've seen the state of Alderaan's affairs, I hope you might be willing to divert some part of your attention to this matter, busy woman that you are._ "I was impressed: he managed to placate Sith ego without groveling (which would, in turn, bruise his own ego). That seems to be the hallmark of _good_ officers; they can lead their men, but they can also manage reasonable Sith without anyone losing face or getting offended.

"What precisely are you asking, Moff? So that everyone here understands," Her Lordship demanded.

I smiled as I watched her work, taking mental notes about tone, posture, word choice. She was grinding them under her boot, showing them in all the ways that mattered that they were subpar, demonstrating the only reason any of them were still breathing was because it would be a waste of effort to kill them all—without ever actually deigning to notice or recognize her audience.

They might not like her, might never be fond of her, might resent her or something of that nature… but they respected her. _This_ was a Sith, powerful and dangerous, one of the overlords of the Empire and considered so for very obvious reasons. If first impressions are lasting impressions, then they've seen the best the Empire has to offer and will judge all others by the standard she sets.

Fear and admiration, though not in equal measure.

" _It is my hope, my lord, that you will be the voice of the Empire within House Thul_ ," the Moff answered unperturbedly. " _Darth Larchris speaks_ _most_ _highly of your ability to bring rebellions to heel—on Balmorra in particular._ "

Jorad turned pasty. Even I'd heard that Balmorra had fallen because there were several enterprising Sith there to ensure it—and that was before Vette told me about it.

That he casually mentioned Darth Lachris like that made me check his uniform: Imperials are status conscious, and the military is very careful in ensuring one can quickly distinguish regular soldiers versus those attached to Sith. In this case, the black shoulder tabs indicated he was in direct service to a Sith; the red teardrop indicated the Sith was a Lord in that order. So he doesn't belong to Lachris, but had enough contact to hear her speak well of Her Lordship. At the very least, that means being in the room while she spoke to someone else.

Interesting.

"I-I see," Jorad managed.

No, I don't think he does. Not the full picture, anyway.

" _Lord Jorad. Obey her as you would obey me. And with the deference due to her station._ " His tone suggested 'if you know what's good for you.' " _My lord._ "The Moff bowed a little at the waist, a gesture reminiscent of the Captain in his most formal moments.

"Thank you, Moff Sarek. Rest assured that the state of things here has my complete and undivided attention."

The Moff severed the link.

Jorad's eyes snapped to Her Lordship. "I… m-my lord." That was all Jorad said, but it seemed to me he didn't know where he was going with his comment.

"We have a great deal of work, Lord Jorad and I should like a word in private. You, my apprentice, and I. Oh, and this as well, I suppose." She nudged Noven with her foot as though she'd half-forgotten him. "Get up. You're not badly hurt."

I had to suppress a smile; I'd said more or less the same thing earlier and sounded _just_ like her when I did it.

Jorad swallowed hard as Noven struggled to his feet, unaided. "I… there's a conference room just this way, my lord. I daresay you… I daresay you could use some refreshment… after your, uh, long journey here." His eyes remained fixed on Noven; I could almost hear him worrying she might slap a collar like that on _him._ The thought that she might just kill him and step over his corpse hadn't quite occurred to him yet, I don't think.

Typical Alderaanian nobility: they think their blood is too precious to be spilled by _anyone_.

"That would be most welcome, indeed. Now, lead the way."

Jorad did not require telling twice. He only just managed not to scurry as he led us to a comfortably furnished room, pausing only long enough to snag a servant in order to demand refreshments be sent as quickly as possible.

"So." Her Lordship gave Jorad enough time to indicate that we—she and I—should please, be seated before settling into the chair commanding the best view of the door. Thus, it put Noven and Jorad with their backs to it, rather as though they were the supplicants and she their superior.

Which she was, in so many ways. For my part, I moved to stand just behind her chair, silently observing since she gave no indication what else I should do. I'm here to watch and to learn; I won't learn much from watching the backs of their heads.

"I-I suppose the Moff intends for us to take on House Organa," Jorad began, folding his hands behind his back in an attempt to look composed.

I had to work not to suck breath with the hope of it. My guts tightened and it took effort not to look hopefully at Her Lordship.

"They are one of Alderaan's oldest noble houses and steadfastly loyal to the Republic," Jorad declared.

"We are aware," Her Lordship said, indicating that she meant I was part of the 'we' she indicated.

I nodded, once.

Jorad glanced curiously at me, then returned his attention to Her Lordship. "Until recently they've been without an army, and some months back they suffered certain losses—"

"And I am _intimately_ familiar with those losses, Lord Jorad," Her Lordship purred, "having orchestrated many of them, myself."

Jorad's mouth dropped open like a loading ramp, his eyes widening. "I… _you_ , my lord?"

"The very same."

Jorad took a moment to compose himself, looking sick. Not only a Sith, but a Sith who has already applied herself to this planet's difficulties. "They-they have resources across the planet, as you no doubt know… including," Jorad motioned to the palace, "here."

"Indeed," Her Lordship answered, her attention shifting to Noven, who seemed finally to be recovering from his first taste of real pain.

"You'll never find them," Noven said darkly, voice low and shaky. "They've got top of the line cloaking. Better than anything the Empire makes. No probes will get through, no spy-sats—"

Her Lordship listened to Noven's vitriol with growing amusement. It wasn't hard to find out why: the man talked too much. Information was the name of the game.

Once he paused for breath, Her Lordship applied the shock collar with a callousness that made Jorad squirm as Noven screamed, then went silent. Unconscious, I knew, once I prodded at his aura. He had guts, I suppose. I'll give him that.

"Now. You were talking about Organa's army," Her Lordship prompted Jorad. As with the same display back in the audience chamber, she hadn't so much as looked at Noven while he writhed on the floor.

"I, what? Oh-oh, yes." Jorad cleared his throat. "House Organa claims they don't have an army at all—that it's just patriots defending their lands."

"How picturesque."

Her Lordship glanced at me invitingly. I swallowed, a little nervous at being called upon when expecting to remain silent, but did not disappoint her. "House Organa exploits the technicality that units of fighters are supplied by the families within the House and not by the House as an overarching entity. Consider them in possession of an army, my lord. The question is whether they have obtained decent leadership since General Gesselle died."

"They'll have great difficulty replacing Gesselle," Her Lordship noted, sounding—and feeling—genuinely regretful of the General's death. The Captain indicated she'd held Gesselle in high esteem, would have been glad to know her better had the situation not been what it was.

"House Organa has a history of producing fighters and leaders when extremes call for them," I continued. "You won't break them without a long campaign. However, House Organa has a great many lesser Houses affiliated with it, after the fashion of the Republic. These lesser houses have weaker fortitude than House Organa, and make up a large number of House Organa's fighters. Break _them_ and House Organa will find resources in short supply. They will either have to back down or request further Republic help. Unsupported, they'll fold under their own weight."

Warm approval rippled through Her Lordship's aura, alongside a tinge of surprise that I'd been so thorough in my report.

"I—your apprentice is quite accurate," Jorad declared, studying me nervously. Two sharks in the water, not just a shark and a guppy. The recognition made me feel a bit more comfortable… but I recognized what might grow into the failing Her Lordship criticized in Vemrin: basing my sense of self-importance on the acclamation of others. "The-the key, now, to infiltrating House Organa involved hacking into their planetwide communications."

"Or we can begin simply by asking the right person the right questions. Surely House Thul has House Organa prisoners stashed somewhere… discrete?" Her Lordship asked.

"Obtain legitimate access codes from them?" Jorad asked. "I, well… I suppose it's _possible_ …"

"It's immaterial. You should send for these poor unfortunates. Jaesa and I will have a few words with them, see what we can turn up. The fallback plan remains the same."

I found myself grinning, half hoping for the fallback plan.

"F-Fallback, my lord?"

Her Lordship got to her feet as Noven began to come to. "You'd be surprised how often slaughter and carnage make the appropriate impressions."

That was what she _said_ , but I sensed through our bond that she was waiting for the Captain to free himself of his obligations before putting him right back to work in this enterprise. I thought I saw what she wanted: if anyone could deal with access codes and communications, it would be the Captain. She did not trust Jorad's people lest they be infiltrated. There was Vette, I suppose, but Her Lordship preferred to rely on the Captain when a matter smacked of anything military.

And the Captain was less distracting to a learning experience than Vette would be.

I made it my priority to ensure that, as I once sensed Baras' agents among those who were not, I would find anyone with leanings anywhere but to House Thul… and for anyone who might act against Her Lordship or advance the causes of those who might. It was only prudent. As I thought about it, I should keep an eye out for Baras' plants, too. It'll be good practice for using my gift. I've seen enough to know that it, like everything else, is like a muscle: if I don't use it, train it, condition it, it will grow weak and useless.

It isn't necessary for Jorad to know all this, though. Even if it were, I suspect his sluggish-from-indolence brain would overload.

Her Lordship watched the noble return to his senses and, once he had, she addressed him directly. "Chrimar Noven. I had intended to make you an example of how the rebellious are brought to heel. I have since reconsidered."

Fear shuddered through both men.

"Lord Jorad. Contact Moff Sarek and tell him I believe that this man has valuable intelligence on the Republic's activities. I expect everything he knows to be squeezed out of him whilst I am otherwise occupied with the debacle that is House Thul's leadership." In a supremely disdaining tone (and, no doubt, with a flick of her eyes up and down his figure), she added, "Or lack thereof. If he misbehaves…" Her Lordship got to her feet, tossing the remote to Jorad, who caught it awkwardly, fumbling several times before getting a good hold. "Use this. Let me see you do it, just once, before you go."

He doesn't really know anything. This is for Jorad's benefit. Noven is just a casualty of Empire-style politics.

Jorad bit his lip, glanced at the remote in his hand, then at Noven.

The look Noven gave him was poignant: he couldn't quite believe Jorad was really going to do this.

Jorad's expression had much in common with that of a cornered creature. He didn't dare disobey Her Lordship, so he bowed to the necessity, looking as though he would have liked to have been sick. He pushed the button, waiting until Her Lordship gave evidence of being satisfied that he had the backbone to keep his captured noble in line.

"Good. I leave this man in your capable hands, Lord Jorad. See that he's safely delivered to Moff Sarek. Have those prisoners brought here for questioning. I shall leave the name of the hotel at which I am staying with your steward."

-J-

Author's Note: One of my biology professors pointed out that symbiosis does not necessarily mean an _equal_ benefit to both parties. This is one of those cases.


	16. Chapter 16

**An Exercise in Domination IV**

We did not stay at the hotel Her Lordship booked. Rather, Jorad insisted—under the guise of propriety—that Her Lordship and her retinue should remain in the guest wing until her business concluded. It was, so he said, more convenient for her, certainly being more comfortable, and would honor his House to have such a distinguished personage in residence. And would she, please, join the family at table this evening?

It was all show and forms, of course, but she accepted. Perhaps I should say ' _so_ she accepted.'

"There is safety in formality," Her Lordship declared as the door closed behind the servants who retrieved our things and transferred them to the suites in the palace. "But we should be cautious, nonetheless." She motioned me to join her on the balcony and leaned heavily on the railing. After a long few minutes, "How does it feel to come home?"

"It's not home. I'm not who I was when I left," I answered, taking in the scenery. The room was oriented to face away from the city, giving quite a picturesque view of the Castle Lands. Without the people, the scenery was quite pretty.

If I was totally honest, it was just weird being back on Alderaan. It didn't feel like home; it was like walking through a lucid dream, or a memory. I was real, but it wasn't. I found the disconnect unsettling.

"Your knowledge of Alderaan's politics will be—has already proved to be—invaluable to me. I hope you will be willing to continue sharing what you know."

"Of course, my lord. Although I'm most familiar with House Organa, I'll do whatever I can."

Her Lordship nodded, then returned into the suite.

Her suite was composed of four rooms: a refresher, a sleeping chamber, an office/living space, and a place for a servant. My chambers—comprised of a sleeping chamber, servant's room, and a refresher—were directly across from hers, and a room similar to mine appropriated for the Captain's use when he eventually rejoined us. Vette, who had yet to join us, was put in the servant's room attached to Her Lordship's suite. I suspected this was to reinforce in the minds of all present that Vette belonged to Her Lordship and if people knew what was good for them, they'd be more than just 'tolerant' of the Twi'lek.

The message wouldn't have the same weight if Vette was sharing with me.

"Do you think that questioning these Organa prisoners will do any good?" I asked, taking a pastry from the large tray of sweets, sandwiches, and fruits that had been brought to us—the one that Jorad had hoped would show up during the interview in that antechamber, but which hadn't before Her Lordship called a halt to it.

It was strange to stand here, a guest of an Alderaanian Great House, a Sith apprentice, eating a ridiculously sweet fancy pastry while discussing domination and destruction with the most dangerous, wickedest woman I've ever met—none of which bothered me.

I glanced at the pastry. At one time, I'd have been delighted to have easy access to such a luxury. Now, after living aboard the _Astral Blight_ with Her Lordship's attention to proper diet, I found the pastry to be a bit too sweet and a bit too rich. It made my teeth ache. So I abandoned it, barely tasted as it was, on the rolling cart the tray rested on in favor of a sandwich.

…maybe the sweet will be easier to handle with something solid to offset it. Alderaan really does have a gift for sweet pastries. We should see if we can add anything to Tuvi's ridiculously extensive culinary databanks.

…or I could ask and see if he's already got this kind of thing just waiting to be put into use.

"One must always try. Besides. I won't be the one questioning them. You will. You see," she continued, "there are various trials through which a Sith must go before they are allowed to graduate. I intend to see that you take a version of them, so you will never feel subpar to anyone Korriban turns out. Even if we turn up nothing useful, it will be good training until the Captain frees himself up. I'll leave him a message this evening."

Not knowing anything about the Captain's mission, and certain she wouldn't tell me anything about it since it was _his_ mission, I simply changed the subject.

 **An Exercise in Domination V**

Dinner was just as unpleasant as I feared, though not in the way I feared it. Conversation was banal and unstimulating—partly owing to the presence of Sith strangers in the diners' midst, scaring the daylights out of everyone in spite of us not being particularly antagonistic or overtly threatening. Her Lordship made effort to simply hide how boring she found it rather than making an effort to open up the table. She was here as the face of Sith displeasure. This was not a friendly diplomatic visit.

For my part, I envied Vette. She was considered part of Her Lordship's staff and was therefore not invited to attend. She got to eat in Her Lordship's suite; when she bade us farewell, it smacked of 'see ya, suckers!'

I, on the other hand, was Her Lordship's apprentice. Thus, I was expected to appear with her, so I would do exactly that. Her Lordship is very conscious of nuance, so while she wore a fashionable dinner gown of a flame tone that should have clashed with her hair but didn't, she also wore a velvet sleeveless black robe over it.

For my part, I also wore red—a deep garnet I particularly liked—with a sleeveless robe match to Her Lordship's.

Her Lordship's aristocratic upbringing meant she kept a proper wardrobe: she could dress for any occasion that arose. I knew she had two smart suits and three formal dresses in addition to her usual day clothes (fashionable in and of themselves).

I had a smart suit of my own, and two formal dresses with me, in addition to my day clothes. I also had less space to store garments that required hanging. Part of me was glad to have an opportunity to wear one of the pretty dresses… part of me resented wasting looking upscale on current company.

That was why I ended up in conversation with two of the noblemen, one of whom was old and avaricious while the other was young and eager to cozy up to the pretty, less dangerous Sith. I wanted to rip his eyes out, the younger one that is, but I refrained. Rather, I contented myself with seeing how catty I could be before he finally took notice that I didn't like his conversation or him personally.

Her Lordship asked me to join her for a post mortem on the dinner once we reached the hall in which we were quartered. I expected it to be short, since there wasn't much going on under the grim looks of the Sith.

Firstly, though, Her Lordship dug out the little encryption module she uses on public (or suspect) terminals, which she hooked up to the holoterminal in her room.

She keyed in the frequency for the _Astral Blight_ and waited. The signal returned that no one was answering. "Quinn. As soon as you get this—"

" _I'm here, my lord!_ " The image capture immediately cut away from the answering prompt to reveal the Captain, hair tousled and damp, as he finished tucking in the white shirt he wears beneath his tunic. It looked as though Her Lordship caught him after a shower.

He raked his hands through his still-damp hair a few times, then picked his tunic up off the holoterminal's base and shrugged it on, buttoning it as he waited for her to speak.

I did not have to imagine that Her Lordship quite enjoyed the spectacle—I felt it pulse through our bond, muffled as though she was endeavoring to spare me the adult antics. I also thought that maybe the good Captain knew just how much Her Lordship would appreciate this kind of reverse strip tease. He certainly was not setting speed records to get his uniform totally in order, which you'd think he would.

I rather think he's more inclined to flirt or play coy games with her when there's no danger of things getting out of control (which is just another way of saying 'interesting').

As for me, I felt myself blushing, so I wandered to the door leading onto the balcony, keeping one ear open.

"My dear captain. Either you've been very successful or I've caught you in a compromising position," Her Lordship teased gently.

I couldn't help it. I glanced back in time to see Her Lordship gently picking the pins out of her hair, the red locks sliding smoothly down. I wasn't confident in my ability to stretch across space with my powers—any of them—so I couldn't be sure, but I thought Her Lordship wouldn't bother with such a gesture unless she knew it would have an effect on the Captain. The gloves came next, once her hair was all down. She wasn't setting nay speed records, either.

I was too far back to see whether he watched the actions or her face. Given the low note of pleasure in Her Lordship's aura, I suppose she was satisfied with the Captain's undivided attention.

" _I am pleased to report that Major Ovech and most of his officers have been saved,_ " the Captain responded. There was something slightly irregular in his tone, which prompted me to lean so I could see him clearly, despite my initial decision to give them some privacy.

"Excellent." She did not need to ask him to elaborate and, for the moment, the games ceased.

" _I was able to infiltrate Ovech's starship and seize control of the operating systems. From there, I identified where his men were being held. It seemed there was a… technical difficulty… that not only locked the bridge down but locked it out of the ship's systems—an old failsafe of that class of starship. Moff Broysc's men were, unfortunately, unable to lift the lockdown. During this difficulty, the Major's men 'freed themselves' and promptly rescued him._ "

"So, you were never there."

" _Never where, my lord?_ " the Captain asked, his mouth twisting in wicked amusement.

Her Lordship chuckled at this. "Amazing job, Quinn. I'm glad you're on our side."

" _You're too kind, my lord._ "

"Perhaps not. The situation here may require your expertise. You know how awful this Alderaanian tech is."

" _I remember how awful you found the Alderaanian elite._ " Then, a little more cautiously, " _Is everything well, my lord?_ " There was real concern in his tone—not for her safety, but for her wellbeing.

"Everything is under control for the time being. We're running a second Balmorra, you see. Your presence will simply expedite matters… and I would greatly appreciate the improvement to the scenery."

" _Ah._ " That was all he said in response to her flirt, but I thought that rather than a comment on his good looks—although those would improve the scenery, just as she said, from where she stood—it was really her way of saying 'I miss you.'" _I understand completely. I'll lay in a course as soon as I'm off the holo with you._ "

"I'm staying at House Thul. They know that I have a Captain Quinn attached to my service and they have already made arrangements for you. See me as soon as you've had time to shake off your journey. Be swift, Quinn. The Empire's grip here is made much weaker by ineffective personnel."

" _I shall certainly set a speed record, my lord. Quinn out._ "

"Goodnight, Quinn."

He surprised her by getting a sentiment in before she severed the communication. " _…sleep well, my lord_."

…and it appears he misses her. How interesting.

She heaved a heavy sigh. "Now, Jaesa. Tell me about those fools that so irritated you over supper."

 **An Exercise in Domination VI**

Apparently, one of the trials an acolyte faces is an interrogation. I think the trial was less about getting the requisite information and more about being willing to do whatever it took to get answers. Or maybe Her Lordship was simply testing my squeamishness; she doesn't enjoy the pain of others—not the physical pain, anyway—but she's not shy about using pain as a lever to get what she wants.

I thought it was wise to place my first experience in using pain as a crowbar in a controlled environment.

I quickly discovered that I didn't care much about the pain of the men I put to questioning. In fact, I began to feel something like a surgeon, dissecting them and their answers, peeling back the layers to see what was underneath. I won't say I _enjoyed_ seeing in them in pain or got weird kicks about being the one with the power… but I didn't feel particularly disturbed.

…that was what I told myself. A little niggling feeling suggested I might not sleep as well as I would like, later. I did my best to ignore it. The biggest part of the exercise was knowing which questions to ask.

"You've done well, Jaesa," Her Lordship declared. "I sensed no lie in him, there at the end." She turned to the guards overseeing the proceedings. "Have this man shipped to Moff Sarek with the rest. Tell him Lord Hellanix sends him her compliments."

"But, as you say, such things are not infallible," I noted, watching the unconscious form half dragged, half carried past us.

"True. But, as you've observed by the morning's work, the key elements extracted match up. As none of these men were taken at the same time from the same place, it is to be hoped that the matching elements represent overlap in truth. And, if they do not, we have Quinn… ah."

'Ah' indeed. The Captain, his bag over his shoulder, stood at the end of the hall, down which he was being conducted by one of Jorad's servants. Clearly having just arrived, he hadn't taken time to stow his things before presenting himself to Her Lordship.

"Captain," Her Lordship called in a louder voice.

"My lord." The Captain bowed that short, formal bow he uses when he's not sure about something.

"Perfect timing, Captain. We were just about to break for lunch. I'll brief you while we eat."

I should have felt nauseous about lunch after what I'd just been through—and somehow I thought that was part of the point, something I'd have to learn to get over—but I found that I really was _very_ hungry.

…and hoping lunch would be more substantial than pastries and sandwiches.

The Captain inclined his head. "At your command, my lord."

"Please inform Lord Jorad that I am indisposed except in case of emergency," she said to the servant. "My entourage and I will take lunch in my chambers, if it is not too much trouble."

One of those polite nothings: I suspect Jorad will be more than happy to serve Her Lordship's meals in her room for the rest of her stay. Or out on the lawn. Or in the middle of a warzone. _Anywhere_ that isn't at his personal table, ruining his digestion.

A cold smile crept across my mouth like spilled wine creeping across a tablecloth. I wasn't impressed by Jorad; he could use all the good examples of leadership he could get.

The Captain took only enough time to toss his bag into his room—literally—before following Her Lordship into her suite. "Major Ovech sends his regards and his thanks, my lord."

"He's very welcome," Her Lordship answered. "And Broysc?"

The Captain's aura, usually so neatly contained, fluxed. "From what I can tell, he's still trying to find the source of the malfunction," the Captain answered slowly. He studied Her Lordship for a long moment, during which she regarded him with a directness many would find unnerving. "My lord…"

I settled in one of the big chairs, as his aura shivered with a sickening concern. Not for himself, but for what something meant for her.

"Yes?"

"I have a concern that this may not be over."

It took effort not to smile at my own confirmed prediction.

"Talk to me, Quinn."

The Captain chewed over his words for a few moments—and was given a few more when a servant arrived with lunch. Once she was gone, the Captain continued, "Broysc will inevitably figure out what happened and who made it happen."

She glanced at me, her eyelids lowering as she composed her answer. There was a locked sort of eye contact when she continued. "His fits of pique are immaterial. _I_ sanctioned you to aid a fellow in need." The words were cold and firm, but it was obvious to anyone who knew her that this was a comforting thing for her to say rather than a dismissive 'I am Sith and such is my wish—there need be no other justification.' If anyone from the Grand Moff down had a problem, he or she must bring it to her, _not_ to the officer executing her orders.

That was that, the end of it, full stop.

Whatever enemies the Captain had, her black mantle would be a powerful deterrent to all but the most persistent among them. She was a lord among Sith, apprentice of a powerful Darth. She wasn't someone even the Grand Moff would cross lightly… or so I imagine. Anyway, she was more than Broysc could deal with on his own.

The Captain frowned reprovingly at Her Lordship. "I'm more concerned about him compromising _your_ campaign, my lord. He has a great deal of clout within the Imperial Armed Forces. That could create a variety of difficulties for you."

I frowned at the Captain, propping my cheek in my hand. He guards Her Lordship's success like a Hutt guards his credits.

Her Lordship considered in silence, leaving me to wonder how much they were saying without actually _saying_. When she spoke, Her Lordship's tone was gentler. "I made you a promise Quinn, and I shall abide by it. But if this Moff does _anything_ to compromise my campaigns or my personnel, his patrons won't save him. I'm sure the Imperial Armed Forces are quite capable of replacing him."

Patrons? In the plural? That suggests I was the slow one in arriving at the conclusion that just one Imperial Moff shouldn't have been enough to stymy someone Baras could make use. Of course, I could be overestimating the Captain's value to Baras, but it does seem odd to let such a talented fellow idle like he was.

I had no idea how long the Captain had been on Balmorra, but it seemed a little too fortuitous for him to have been there _just_ to run into Her Lordship. Maybe I'm underestimating the importance of the work the Captain was doing on Balmorra. Vette did say he had a general's stamp and was practically running the garrison. Was that why he was there? Stability and competence in leadership to keep the military structure from fluctuating too much?

That's possible. And useful. And makes a lot of sense. It explains Baras' hands-off approach. Assuming I'm not overvaluing Baras' perception of the Captain. And now he's here, with us.

I considered this as the Captain fell silent. I _know_ from Vette that the Captain was a lieutenant when he and Her Lordship met. I know that he was promoted after her campaign on Balmorra (by Baras and ostensibly for meritorious service), then asked to allow himself to be reassigned to Her Lordship's service. Reading between the lines, he's here because Baras wants him here.

Her Lordship knows this. She can't _not_ know, astute woman that she is.

And the Captain is smart enough to suppose that she's aware of this little fact.

She called him 'Captain' which she only does in company—I sensed it was something to reinforce her comment about having made him a promise. The only promise I could think of that she might have made wasthat she, rising star Sith that she is, apprentice to a well-known and well-respected Darth as she is, wouldn't meddle in the Captain's career… unless it be to keep this Broysc character from keeping it at a standstill. Little pieces of meaning began to coalesce before me. The Captain is a proud man; he would hate owing his advancement simply to a Sith's good word. He'd prefer to slog his way through adversity and _earn_ what he gets, even if it means setting himself against an obstruction that has no business being there.

Her Lordship is the type to let him have his way. The Sith way, after all, is conflict—one way or another, one fights for whatever one gains. If not to gain it, then at the very least to keep it.

Baras promoted the Captain and got him off Balmorra; for someone like the Captain, that would engender an appreciable gratitude. Her Lordship—and the Captain is very fond of Her Lordship—allowed him to station with her. I _know_ the Captain resents Baras for some reason, even if there's loyalty to that murderous oaf—well, he will be murderous eventually, no harm in getting used to thinking it. Yet, I also know for a fact that the Captain serves as Baras' eyes and ears, however passively, so he's not so fond of her as to—

Wait. No, I'm seeing this backwards. If he were to stop his reports—whatever they are—then Baras might get inquisitive as to _why_. Better to leak a little than risk someone less sympathetic spying on her. Or, worse, risk Baras coming to the decision that Her Lordship needs to be neutralized prematurely.

Her Lordship wasn't joking when she said Sith interests were complicated. It makes my head hurt.

It seems I need to do some research into our good Captain. I need to put the pieces together, just in case Her Lordship's interest creates a blind spot where Baras' handsome, clever spy is concerned. I hope my efforts turn out to be pointless. The Captain is a likeable, if rather reserved, fellow.

Her comment about this Broysc character having a patron made the concern both she and the Captain (to varying degrees) felt make sense. For her a Moff is no problem; a Moff backed by a Sith with more authority or clout than she has could be one. Arguably, Baras will ignore any interference until given reason to believe Her Lordship can't handle the matter. And Her Lordship won't let a whisper of that idea get back to him.

"Jaesa. I do apologize for ignoring you."

I smiled as I pulled myself out of my reverie. "I didn't feel ignored, my lord. On the contrary, it's nice to observe a conversation that isn't utterly puerile."

I got points for the big word.

"Has it been that bad?" the Captain asked, looking surprised.

"Worse," I answered. "You're fortunate to have missed dinner last evening."

When the Captain looked away, Her Lordship caught my eye and nodded once. I took it to mean I'd neatly taken the avenue she'd provided to change the topic without having been too obvious about it.

 **An Exercise in Domination VII**

It turned out that the information we obtained from the captured Organa troops was accurate. However, the Captain advised Her Lordship against using the information we'd retrieved to dip into the system for our current project—a hack would be sufficient, so he said. The still-useful code could then be provided to the Imperial garrison, that is to Moff Sarek, for wider use than our immediate issue.

Her Lordship agreed that this bridge-building would be useful. In the wake of her conversation with the Captain the day before, I think Her Lordship was pleased to be building bridges with anyone in Imperial Armed Forces, as long as they could become clout she could exercise against this Moff Broysc character. I suspected she had her godfather's backing if she could prove that she was truly acting in the Empire's interests. It might be useful to have this second Moff to act on her behalf or at her prompting.

Because it was apparent to me that Her Lordship was preparing for war with this Broysc fellow (or his patron and _then_ Broysc) but didn't want to just stick her lightsaber into him.

I would have gone with the lightsaber, personally, before he could become trouble. More trouble. I suspect though, that that might fall under Her Lordship's definition of 'meddling in the Captain's career' to an inexcusable degree. So, rather than apply Sith methods, she simply redirected her thoughts to working the system in her favor.

I also thought that this might be partly for show—no Sith would trust 'the system' when one of those in power within that system was involved. I rather suspected that, sooner or later, the Captain and this Moff would end up in the same room and, unless I'm very much mistaken, only one of them will walk out of it.

Or maybe Her Lordship will ask me to sneak off and take care of it myself. Make it look like an accident. I've never done assassination work before—though if I were to be asked it would be sometime later in my training. She still has _so_ many complaints about my combat techniques.

We—that is, Her Lordship and I, with the Captain following us—hit the Organa listening post with extreme prejudice. I'd never been in this kind of kill-or-be-killed situation before. In fact, I'd never really been in real combat like this before: Her Lordship hadn't exaggerated when she told me our combat practices, and the noise levels involved, were necessary. It was louder than anything I'd ever expected, what with the sounds of blasters and the screams of the maimed and dying.

For my part, I found almost immediately that I _enjoyed_ it. The rush of adrenaline, the surge of empowerment at being superior, of actually _being_ powerful rather than just hoping to feel that way. There was fear, but it wasn't any kind of fear I was accustomed to experiencing. It was something I could deal with instead of simply cope with.

My training also seemed to be paying off, whatever Her Lordship's complaints were: I didn't even get singed during the fighting. My arms might be noodle-like, but they weren't useless.

Sweaty and triumphant, I turned to find Her Lordship ascending the steps to the platform upon which all the listening post's hardware was located. The Captain was already there, working briskly. As soon as Her Lordship joined him, he began narrating for her what he was doing.

I followed once I was sure all the bodies on the floor—I worried less about the droids—were really dead. There was no sense in not checking. One can be too cautious, but I didn't want to be _that_ apprentice who let an opponent clever enough to play possum get away because she wasn't paying proper attention.

They were all dead, however.

"We're in luck," Her Lordship announced as soon as she heard me on the steps leading up to the control hub, "we broke in mid-call. The other end of that call saw _everything_. Apparently we made an impression."

"The right impression?" I asked, trying to keep the breathiness of exertion out of my voice. I frowned at Her Lordship. She was sweaty too, been fighting just as hard as I had, but barely seemed winded. I, on the other hand, was just plain _tired_.

Apparently I needed endurance training, too.

"I've tapped in," the Captain announced. "We should apprise Lord Jorad, since he hasn't contacted us."

Her Lordship produced her holocom and activated it. "Lord Jorad."

She almost always uses titles when she speaks to (or often about) someone, if they have one. In fact, and not for the first time, I've noticed the usually formal cant to her speech. I've come to the conclusion it's less for everyone else's benefit and more for her own: one thinks a little more when thinking how to phrase something for polite or elevated company.

" _My lord. We're tapped into the Organa communication network. They're, ah, they're all abuzz about the, er, ruthless brutality of your attack._ " I wanted to laugh at the delicately distasteful inflection on 'ruthless brutality,' as if he was alluding to something coarse and didn't want to. " _They, uh, the do train you Imperials_ _well_ _don't they?_ "

"Sith are trained even more superbly," Her Lordship noted dryly.

Jorad's brows knit together as though he didn't understand what she meant—she just told him that there was a difference between 'an Imperial' and 'a Sith.' They might belong to the same Empire but the distinction existed. 'Imperial' was _not_ an all-purpose term when it came to referring to the Empire's subjects.

I touched the Captain's aura to see how he felt about the comment, but found only a sort of glowing appreciation. I forgot: he likes watching her work. It's so strange. Beneath his cool, collected composed exterior I sense hints of a deeper, more vibrant personality. He schools himself into colorless coolness rather than revel in the nature he's been given. Why? Is it an Imperial thing, or does he fear flying apart if his chains were lifted?

I toyed with taking a good look into him, but refrained. Her Lordship wouldn't approve, I don't think, of idle curiosity when that idle curiosity intrudes upon her private affairs.

Seeing that Jorad missed her point entirely—and resonating with disdain as she did so—Her Lordship tried again. "Wars are not won by talking."

" _You-you're right. We're going to be trying for the throne, after all_." Jorad sounded as though he was trying to convince himself. _"That's worth a little brutality."_

I don't think Jorad caught it, but I know Her Lordship and I did: the Captain, our so-by-the-book, prim and proper Captain, gave a mildly exasperated snort. Apparently he also found Jorad to be a poor candidate for any position of power, whatever the benefit of having a weak fool for a puppet… a poor enough candidate to get him to actually show his distaste for the man.

" _Now that we can monitor Organa's communications—"_

"My lord," the Captain's voice snapped across Jorad's rambling. "A situation seems to be arising."

"Report. You, stay on the line," she declared, indicating Jorad who looked thoroughly affronted by her brusque command (or maybe her preference for listening to an 'underling' when he was still talking). He didn't dare argue, though.

"There is a counterattack being launched. From what I can tell, our actions here have prompted Organa to speed up their own timetable," the Captain rattled off. "They're going after—damn. My lord, this is a concerted, multi-target attack. Here, here, and here." Then, with a dark air of deprecation that no one could mistake for dismal fatalism, "Border outposts where the troops have been stretched thinnest."

They certainly couldn't have gone any thinner than the line of the Captain's mouth, that's for sure.

" _I… wait,_ _all_ _of them?"_ As Jorad began speaking, a droid began speaking hurriedly, echoing what the Captain just said. _"Blood of the Queen!"_

"Quinn."

It was always amazing how much the Captain could read into Her Lordship's saying of his name.

"It will take time to get you to these bases, my lord, no matter how you approach them. However, I can disrupt their signals and force them into radio silence. As these are mostly droids, they shouldn't give you or Jaesa difficulties. However, in great enough number even droids can be a threat."

"Yes. Do you remember on Balmorra? I was to destroy the mainframe but you asked me to employ a dataspike that let you plant listening software to the rest of the network before I did it? Couldn't we do something like that?"

The Captain considered for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, my lord, you could. But it won't work, here." He glanced at me. "How do you feel about letting Jaesa off on her own?"

I drew myself up at this, as Her Lordship turned to study me closely.

"You want us to split up. Have us take the outlying outposts and then converge on the central one when we're able."

"It is an option, my lord, both expedient and efficient."

"Jaesa." Her Lordship did not take her orange-eyed gaze off me. She said nothing more, merely waited, leaving me feeling like I was under a spotlight.

I licked my lips, weighing my skills versus my desire to succeed and please her. She would rather I admit to inability than prove myself incapable. She needs to be able to rely on me. "I can do it, my lord. I _will_." The simple fact that she asked me meant that she had confidence that I could do it. She wouldn't have considered it if she didn't. "I'm ready." I swallowed hard though, and gripped my lightsaber tightly.

I'd have to shake the sense of being tired.

"There are ten men of Lord Jorad's waiting for us outside. Both of you should take five to back you up." Not just anyone could tell Her Lordship she ought to take back-up without her protesting it to some degree. It spoke of how highly Her Lordship esteemed the Captain that she did not shoot down the precaution out of pride.

"I'll handle the outpost on my own; send those five to the central outpost. Perhaps they will be able to retake it before Jaesa and I finish," she answered calmly.

The Captain nodded once, but waited for the conversation to finish before rattling off orders. His blue eyes fixed on her as if he was downloading information, or as though he could look past her eyes and directly tap into her wishes.

…or maybe just into her…

Not your business, Jaesa. Not in the slightest.

"Captain," I broke in. He pulled his eyes away from Her Lordship to give me his full attention. Clearly, though, I wasn't as pretty or compelling. That's just as well. "We were at a cantina earlier and it was full of off-duty soldiers. Can't you conscript them? On a Sith lord's authority?" I looked from him to Her Lordship. "If numbers are needed."

The Captain paused, then looked around the listening post. "It's possible. It would take too much time to be immediately useful, but it's a consideration."

"Good girl, Jaesa. Take five soldiers and get going." Her Lordship gave me one of her sharp grins as she hung up on Jorad. A moment later Moff Sarek appeared. "Moff Sarek."

" _My lord_. _This is a surprise_."

"There's been an unforeseen development here. Even I cannot be in four places at once," she answered.

I suppose the fourth place is holding down this listening post. I motioned randomly to five of the men and started off.

"This mission now requires that you mobilize a few units of soldiers and put them under the command of Captain Quinn. He shall direct them as he knows my wishes and is accustomed to working with me."

I didn't stick around to hear the rest of the conversation. I'm pretty sure I know how it will go.


	17. Chapter 17

**An Exercise in Domination VIII**

Sweat trickled down my skin as the last droid fell in a sparking, twitching heap. I sported several glancing burns, but I was alive and the attackers weren't—or they were fizzling wrecks rather than working droids. Time spent training under Her Lordship's critical eye paid off, I thought. The feeling of being burned hadn't surprised me—I'd been scorched by her lightsaber often enough, and knew from experience that pain was a product of training: I didn't go into the fight expecting to remain unscathed.

Part of me, the Jedi I had yet to fully squash, regarded the deaths of those sentients present as a loss of life. I could feel the little spaces where the men's lives had been… like popped bubbles, slowly filling up with water as the air escaped.

The Sith I meant to cultivate didn't care: they were in my way, in Her Lordship's way, which was reason enough to kill them. It was not as though Alderaan's soil didn't run red with the blood of her people. What was a little more, really?

Or less, in actuality, as lightsabers cauterize as they cut.

I pulled out my holocom. "Captain Quinn. I'm finished here."

" _My lord. You may proceed back to House Thul. Her Lordship will follow once she's finished at the second outpost._ "

Ugh, she works _so fast_. "Did my master have any further instructions for me?"

" _Only to leave the detachment of men you brought with you where they are. Reinforcements are incoming."_

I glanced back. Of the original five, I'd lost only one. Hopefully Her Lordship would see it as a sign that I was careful with the resources I had, even if I had not yet attained her level of competence.

 **An Exercise in Domination IX**

Her Lordship was back at House Thul about half an hour after I arrived. I waited for her in Jorad's audience chamber, since she would have to pass through it to go anywhere within the palace. My presence made Jorad uncomfortable; he squirmed like an antsy child rather than a grown man vying for a crown. I wasn't even crowding him. I barely _looked_ at him.

 _I_ felt uncomfortable, still twitchy with adrenaline.

The nobles who assembled and passed through gave me a wide berth, despite the fact that I was only standing by one of the pillars. It was strange: as a Jedi, people gave me space—I was strange but not frightening. As a Sith, people gave me space because I was strange _and_ frightening.

Or perhaps they picked up on the fact that I was in no way pleased to have to be around them or on this particular chunk of rock. I did my best to amend this attitude or, at least, let my hatred of this world and the desire to see it burn like a torch, streets running red with the blood of fools, seep into me.

I didn't waste time: I meditated, falling into my own mind as I willed the Force to knit my burns back together beneath their gauze wraps. One of the soldiers had hesitantly offered to patch me up. He didn't radiate the same awe towards me as I've felt directed at Her Lordship… but there was certainly respect.

And wariness.

Part of me, a small part not taken up with my self-repairs, was disgusted with myself. He'd been rather handsome and had a kind smile. Part of me had wanted to say something to him, something spoken quietly but bold in its wording that Jaesa the Handmaiden or Jaesa the Jedi would _never_ say. I'd chickened out, though. The best that could be said was that I didn't blush while he worked on me.

He'd looked so pleased to be helping.

I opened my eyes the instant I felt Her Lordship enter the room, accompanied by the Captain, who had a bag full of something Her Lordship had scavenged—probably at his suggestion. She seemed in a fairly moderate temper, her step light and giving her the appearance of gliding or floating along.

Nevertheless, people scattered before her like sparrows before a hawk.

A quick glance under one of my bandages revealed the burn almost completely healed. I was never very adept, but clearly I'd learned something about using the Force from Her Lordship even if nothing specific to healing. Take it for what it is: if she doesn't have to spell out everything for me, it makes me a better student.

"Ah, my lord!" Jorad got nervously to his feet. Nervous sweat glazed his brow; such was his state of agitation that Her Lordship's appearance actually cause him a moment of relief.

I wondered how long it would last.

"I cannot thank you enough for your quick work! I don't know what House Organa hoped to gain, but this attack was long in the planning."

"It is rank foolishness to spread your troops too thin, Lord Jorad," she declared shortly.

"W-we have not had outright war on Alderaan for generations," he offered, rather spinelessly in my opinion. "Our tactics are a bit, er, rusty."

"Then perhaps a little steel wool is in order."

Ouch. I had to work not to laugh at this… and I thought I caught something like a shadow of mirth cross the Captain's mostly impassive features.

"These are memory cores from the droids attacking your outpost." She indicated the bag the Captain held, which he immediately handed to her. She passed it off to the nearest droid. "My Captain suggests the cores can be scoured for possible intelligence pertaining to the next stage in House Organa's plans."

It was odd to listen to her call the Captain 'my Captain' in that she never sounded like so many Sith, who gave the impression of children trying to snatch _all_ the toys. Nor did she sound condescending, or as if she minimized him. Rather, she referred to him the way a great lord might refer to a valued and respected retainer, one who had his mouth to her ear. Rather than take away face when she spoke for him, she seemed to increase his stature.

"I suggest datamining occur without delay," she concluded.

I hoped we'd be allowed to rampage through those brilliantly white halls. I'd like few things more than to carve my way through the place where I'd been so unhappy. My shoulders ached though, reminding me—forcefully, this time—what a weak-bodied creature I am.

"Very well, my lord," Jorad answered, indicating his droid should… move? I think he was simply trying to maintain some sort of face before his court. He should have saved himself the trouble. "It shall be done."

"Inform me when you know something. Jaesa."

I joined Her Lordship, aware that although her command for my attention and presence was simply use of my name, there was a difference in the way she did it versus what I'd grown up with. Growing up, it had been 'Jaesa, do this.' With Her Lordship it was 'Jaesa, come share my confidence.' She truly has a gift for communication; she says things accurately without needed lots of words.

"So, how do you feel after your first solo encounter?" Her Lordship asked, once the three of us were ensconced in her chambers over tea and cakes. She eyes these latter askance, which made me smile into my cup. Her Lordship is not in the practice of excess, as Jedi paint Sith as being. She treats her body like a high-performance vehicle, so she only gives it the right and best kinds of fuel.

She might be carving me in her image—or into the image she desires me to match—but she doesn't insist I follow her rigorous discipline. Thus, I was free to eat as many cakes as I wanted as long as I could perform to her exacting standards later.

Forget frilly cakes, which would make me sick if I had to go to work while they were still digesting; I wanted a hot soak to ease the stiffening muscles. However, since it was not going to be in my immediate future, I put off the longing wishes I couldn't gratify. "It was exhilarating, my master. My men suffered a single loss. I'll do better, next time," I responded promptly. "The droids pushed me, but I find that your lessons have improved my abilities greatly."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it."

Her Lordship is sparse with her praise, but when she gives it I have the satisfaction of knowing that I _earned_ it.

"So, this trip is a learning trip. What have you learned today?" she asked.

I considered my tea. "Not to stretch one's defenses too thin, nor should one put all one's eggs in one basket. That the mere presence of a Sith is a powerful force for unnerving people… or inspiring them. That Lord Jorad is more interested in _appearing_ adept than _being_ adept." I didn't feel like using his title, but Her Lordship almost always uses honorifics when speaking. I supposed it had to do with courtesy to the rank, not necessarily to the one holding it. Or maybe to keep her grounded when people she had to deal with got on her nerves or soured her mood.

"Good girl, Jaesa. I was wondering if you would recognize that," she smiled, putting her tea aside in order to study me as she leaned into her chair. Despite being dressed for combat, she sat like a lady, presenting a strange mix of good breeding and utter ferocity. "But this fault of Lord Jorad's is useful."

Despite the number of times she expresses the sentiment of wondering when I would catch on, it's less that she entertains a low opinion of me and more that she allows me to set my own bar.

"Highly. He's easy to manipulate. He'll posture, but he'll bend over backwards to do whatever it takes—or take whatever is suggested—as long as it keeps the status quo. That is, as long as he's alive and in power," I answered. "If he were interested in _being_ adept, he would be less malleable and therefore less useful at this point in time." I wanted to exceed her expectations, to show her that the time and effort she was investing in me was not being wasted on a fool.

"You're a credit to me, Jaes—"

The door banged open, revealing a nearly panicked Jorad Thul. It ricocheted off the wall only to be smacked back by a meaty hand.

The abrupt sound brought the Captain out of his chair, poised either to be at attention or to reach for his blaster and open fire, whichever the situation required.

Her Lordship's reaction wasn't as dramatic. She simply got to her feet the instant she registered 'Jorad Thul' as opposed to something requiring a response. I felt the Force tug towards her though, ready to be called into service. "I take it there has been a development?" she asked, tone low in disapproval of his simply bursting in.

"It's _monstrous_!" Jorad cried, droplets of the sweat beaded up on his forehead beginning to slide down the planes of his face.

His personal style of dress is awful, I'll give him that.

" _What_ is monstrous?" Her Lordship demanded, nonplussed.

Jorad took a deep breath. "House Killesa—Lord Cedarick—" He took another breath. Clearly he'd run all the way here, quite a thing for a man so out of shape.

Suddenly… I felt much less weak-bodied. I got to my feet as well, ready to head back into action.

"He's one of my vassals—swore loyalty to me personally when we returned from exile!" Jorad sounded so shocked and shaken about it, so affronted that anyone could possibly go back on his promises, that it made me sneer.

"That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard," Her Lordship responded, her lip curling as she echoed my own thoughts.

One in power must _always_ assume one is being plotted against. With Sith and aristocrats, this is more often the truth than not.

"That's not the worst of it! The datamine indicated that they were to join an assault team in the siege tunnel!"

"Siege tunnel?" Her Lordship scowled.

"Old escape routes," I supplied while Jorad panted, his attempt to recover his breath enforcing a slow response. "They usually lead from an established house such as this to a place of safety, often to an adjacent noble's lands. In case of siege, a way out, hence the name."

Her Lordship's lips pursed.

"And they're coming through it!" Jorad almost exploded, beginning to sound annoyed that we weren't as freaked out as he was and as responsive as he knew we could be.

"Ah. A distraction with the outposts so they could weaken you here… then pounce." Her Lordship glanced at the Captain.

"A sound supposition, my lord," the Captain answered. "And, speaking tactically, most likely."

"You came out of exile. How could you know whether or not the secrets of this house—like your siege tunnel—had not been marked and explored by unfriendly eyes? That tunnel should have been sealed the _moment_ you went to war," Her Lordship declared in a clipped tone. "Captain?"

"The best thing to do is just that, my lord: seal the tunnel completely. Collapse it to prevent any further incursions." He said it demurely, but with the nuances of someone who didn't believe in prearranged escape routes of this sort—that is to say, implemented at least a hundred of years ago and still thought to be tactically sound.

"See to it. Lord Jorad, you will give my Captain your complete support. Jaesa, let's see about pitting you against something a little more interesting than droids and their minders. Work out some of that stiffness." She gave me a wicked grin which I returned, my heart speeding up, adrenaline pumping into my veins.

Of course she would know. This is certainly endurance training of a nature I can't afford not to take seriously. Well, what made me sore will make me un-sore, as the saying goes. "I'm yours to command, my lord."

"Then follow me." She swept out of the room, I followed at a trot, Jorad struggled to keep up and overtake us so as to show us where to go, while the Captain quietly brought up the rear. Her Lordship likes to keep the Captain close, but she isn't afraid to delegate to him.

I was glad that she didn't leave me somewhere safe, like Karr would have, when things get interesting or dangerous—or both. Strange to think I used to appreciate being shielded from danger. Now, I wouldn't appreciate it at all. It's better to meet it head on than wait for it to come to you.

 **An Exercise in Domination X**

"This isn't a siege _tunnel_ ," Her Lordship declared with a grimace. "This is a sieve _avenue_. An underground thoroughfare."

"Alderaan is a place of pretentiousness, not necessarily practicality, Master."

"I can see why you would want to burn it to the ground," she answered, her lip curling. "I shall have to look into a demolitions expert after this. Quinn is a worthy fellow but explosions really should be a labor of love."

I laughed at this. With the Captain, an explosion is a matter of precision, the perfect charge to do the job to 'utmost efficiency.' I'm with Her Lordship: let's get someone who _likes_ explosions in here, changing 'boom' to 'BOOM!' Then we can all cheer at the result. Maybe bring marshmallows.

We carved through a few advanced guards as we followed the large halls with their massive support pillars. From what I could tell, this Killesa fellow intends to crater Jorad's palace by strategically planting explosives on the support columns.

I approve. Or I would if I wouldn't be caught in the cratered building.

Cedarick Killesa was a small man, fragile-looking with an ugly hat, almost a leather helmet, that did not compliment his clothes or his features. In fact, his hat looked like a tanned hide of some small creature that had been flopped hastily over his head to hide a grotesque scalp affliction.

His heavily-armored troopers with their explosives reminded me a little of the Mandalorians of Dromund Kaas, except that the Mandalorians had a casual sort of readiness to their postures. These fellows looked like they had metal bars strapped to their backs to enforce good carriage. Their armor also lacked the range of personalization the Mandalorians sported. There is a problem, I decided, if the appearance of Mandalorians was preferable to someone's personal soldiers. If I had a task like this, going by looks alone, I'd hire a clan or whatever the Mandalorians call their units rather than rely on these troopers.

"So, you're the Imperial puppet who taught Jorad Thul to bite instead of bark," Killesa sneered, his voice mild, almost dainty. I caught myself wondering where all the men that are _men_ had got to.

Her Lordship smiled, sinking her weight into one hip, her head cocked as she regarded the fragile form of this minor noble. Her smile said, to anyone who could read such things, 'I'm going to kill you, fool.'

"Does he lick your hand? Fetch your slippers?"

If I were him, I wouldn't be so nonchalant. Or maybe he, like so many of these inbred nobles, is just too stupid to understand. Like those puffy cute dogs that were so in vogue—if they ever got out into the world they never came back, being too stupid to see a predator and run away.

"He sounds like Duke Kendoh," Her Lordship observed disgustedly. "I'm doing this world a great favor by killing him. A dose of chlorine into the nobility pool. Who says the Sith have no sense of the common good?"

I laughed at this… then let my tongue run, just because I could. "It's only unfortunate that he's had time to reproduce, or I'd call it a dose of chlorine into the gene pool."

This earned a real chuckled from Her Lordship, and a flush of anger from Killesa. Wow. That wasn't hard at all.

As far as Duke Kendoh, I'd heard about him, his unpleasant whinnying laugh, and Her Lordship's deep dislike for the slimy weasel. I'd also heard how he'd tried to get her in trouble with her master only to have her show up—higher than ever in Darth Baras' favor—to confront him… at which point she killed him.

The Captain hadn't been interested in focusing on that part, though.

" _Real_ Alderaanians will never bow to the likes of you!" Killesa pointed theatrically at Her Lordship (though he spared another nasty glare for me, too). It lacked the effect as when Her Lordship points with her lightsaber. With Killesa it just looked juvenile.

" _I_ am a ' _real_ _Alderaanian_ ,'" I said darkly, mouth twisting into genuine disgust. Just as before, Her Lordship did not insist upon silence as the Jedi would have done, nor did she attempt to stifle me with remarks about inappropriate times for making comment. Rather, I felt through our bond a sense of pleasure that I was finding my tongue as well as myself. "The _real_ _Alderaanian_ that carried the weight of you and your kind on her shoulders." Killesa looked surprised, then disgusted—but not nearly as disgusted as I was. "I bow to this Sith quite willingly. Let me take his head, Master. Consider it a sign of my profound gratitude."

Her Lordship laughed at this, the low chuckle which showed I'd pleased her even if I didn't have to. "I might consider it, Jaesa. Except there's a lesson to be learned here from which I wish you to benefit. Let's see if he holds the door into it for us, gentleman that he is, hm?"

I grinned. She's going to kill him. I knew that already, but the reinforcement was good for me.

"Do you think this matters?" Killesa asked. "Do you think any of this matters? Kill me and another will rise in my place, and another, and another, down to the last child. _You_ cannot stop it."

Killesa's attention shifted past Her Lordship as the soft sound of a measured march—the Captain, no doubt about it—caught my ears.

Her Lordship glanced over her shoulder. "Captain. Punctual as ever. You haven't missed the show."

"I'm relieved to hear it, my lord."

I didn't need to peek at him with my special power to know that the idea of watching Her Lordship slaughter this band of fools rather than burying them in rubble was appealing. He likes to watch her fight. I don't get the impression he's the kind who gets turned on by violence in general—just by the art of combat she has so obviously mastered.

"I swear, they put something in the water these nobles drink," Her Lordship mused, caught between disgust and disbelief.

Having seen the nobility she came from, I quite agreed.

"Do your worst!" Killesa spat, almost quivering with indignation. "Or, if you were a woman with any shred of decency, you would fight me man to man and not hide behind your detonators."

"He's a gentleman after all," I observed to Her Lordship. "He opened the door for you. Master, _do_ let me do it. He's too much a fool to be worth your efforts."

"Therein lies the lesson, Jaesa. A Sith who can't do her own killing soon finds herself obsolete. I'm not yet so inundated by fools and foes that I need help. Not for this, anyway. I believe terms are traditional," she directed at Lord Killesa, "and I can see you are aching to share them. Tell me what I'll win."

I giggled at this, the sound strangely eerie in the passage.

Killesa looked like he'd bitten down on a peppercorn. Clearly he overestimated his chances of winning. Now, I don't believe for an instant that Her Lordship expects him—or his successor—to follow through, but this encounter will be remembered if there are any survivors. Word will spread. That's a powerful thing.

"You surprise me, _Sith_. I heard your kind wouldn't know honor if you scraped it off your shoe."

"Which is why I fit right in on this… charming… planet," Her Lordship sneered as if scraping something nasty off her boot right that moment.

The slight was not lost on anyone.

"A duel of skill, then," Killesa said, unexpectedly demonstrating prudence. I mean, he, a non-Sensitive, is challenging a _Sith_ to combat? No contest, in this case. Unless he expects her to lower herself somehow, to 'fight fair.'

As if battle is ever about fairness.

"You against me," Her Lordship agreed. "I'll even descend to your level."

The Captain didn't like this, but only Her Lordship and I would have caught it. I suppose she meant no fancy Force tricks.

" _If_ you win, I will give my House over to Jorad Thul to use as he wills. If I win, you stand aside and let me cleanse Alderaan of this scourge! And tell your _Imperial_ handlers—" Clearly he thought the Captain one of them, which made the Captain sniff—his version of a laugh. I'd like to see the Imperial who could harness Her Lordship.

No doubt she'd let the Captain handle her any day—or every day—but that's beside the point.

"—Alderaan lives free or dies!"

Her Lordship gave him just enough time to touch the hilt of his sword.

Killesa was dead before the word 'dies' cut off; true to her word, Her Lordship simply charged him, no use of the Force. She was fast, even relying solely on physical prowess, turning Killesa into a macabre parody of an olive on a toothpick.

She was not as sporting with the two guards nearest to him. The jump she immediately executed—or, rather the landing at the end of it—cracked the floor beneath her, sending the staggering guards to the ground. A swing of her lightsaber sent heads literally rolling.

"Leave one to carry the tale," she said coldly, deflecting several blaster bolts before falling back to stand beside the Captain, ignoring the remaining petrified troopers. "The rest are yours, Jaesa."

I grinned and strode forward, extending my hand. Lightning crackled from my fingertips, catching several of the men in a web of purple light. Their screams rose loudly as those not affected turned to run. I was among them in a trice, despite not being proficient in Her Lordship's favored Force lunge. Within moments of that, they lay in pieces, except for the one Her Lordship required.

"You need to turn around so you can hear what she has to say to you," I declared, leveling my lightsaber at his throat. "Or I shall take great pleasure in dismembering you until you capitulate. I will begin with your legs, so that you may crawl into my master's presence." I liked the way the words came out: it wasn't a threat, it was the reality I would enforce.

"You're in-insane!" the trooper chattered, but he scrambled hastily to his feet.

"Insanity is for the weak-minded. I am _Sith_. There lies your way," I made a half turn, pointing with my lightsaber, ready for a backhanded swing if he tried anything cute. The sense of feeling—no, _being_ —powerful was heady, and I struggled not to let it overcome me. There's a difference between feeling _powerful_ and _being_ powerful. It was the first time, I think, that I really felt and appreciated the fact.

Her Lordship still stood near the Captain, who continued directing the placement of the thermal detonators that would collapse this portion of the siege tunnel.

"The man you required, Master," I announced cheerfully.

"Excellent." Her Lordship prowled up to the trooper who would have given ground if not for me standing just behind him. He didn't dare step into my lightsaber. "You will bring word of this to Lord Killesa's successor," Her Lordship commanded, pinning him with that intense gaze of hers. "You will also take his body that they might see how little effort it took to kill him. If his successor has not honored his predecessor's promise by sundown, my apprentice will be allowed to whet her skills on your entire house one minute after. As Lord Killesa indicated that your people will fight to the last child, they will be killed to the last child. For prudence's sake."

I won't lie, I felt a bit squeamish about killing children. I knew Her Lordship was in earnest when she said she would do it. However, I'm sure the other fellow also knew she was dead serious, so he'd pass that along. There would be those who might think to run… but with the impression Her Lordship made I don't think they'll actually do it. Who knows how far a reach a woman like that actually has? It's just better not to test it.

"Treachery and false promises will not be tolerated. And, as you may have observed, my apprentice is _quite_ good at what she does." She cast me an appraising look which made me draw myself up a little taller, even if the trooper couldn't see me.

There were six of them after all, not counting the ones Her Lordship killed. I grinned at the thought, because Her Lordship wouldn't bluff about that. Many might have called her praise 'condescendingly voiced,' but I knew better both because I know her and because I could feel the pride and expectation that letting me practice my skills on a larger scale would be good for me.

There was more of a chance I could get hurt, but wisdom and cunning come from pain. Witness her scars.

"A-as you command, my lord." The trooper bowed, hurriedly hauled Killesa's remains onto his shoulders, and hurried away.

"Excellent work, Jaesa. I do think he was rather more frightened of you than of me," she observed.

I beamed at her. I could live with being thought the frightening one; that being the case, what does it say of her to have my unconditional, willing support? No need of a leash with me.

Her Lordship oversaw—which is to say, she merely watched as the Captain managed—the rigging of the detonators by some of Jorad's house troopers.

"Now, let us go and see about Lord Killesa's estate," Her Lordship declared to me, once the Captain declared that all was in readiness and that we ought to withdraw to a safe distance. "Captain, holo me when the Killesa successor shows up, then make arrangements for Jaesa's and my extraction. I'll send you our coordinates once we've found a spot in which to wait. Give us a few minutes to get ahead of the blast, then you may detonate at will."

"It will be done, my lord," the Captain answered promptly.

I had to wonder, very privately as Her Lordship and I walked down the tunnel, at the tension between Her Lordship and the Captain. He obviously esteemed her and—at least it was visible to me—desired her. Badly. Like keep him up some nights wondering…

Ellipses included.

It was obvious to me—as well as to him—that she held him in high regard. Moreover, she wanted him; it was a want like _thirst_. She could have easily seduced him at any point. He was clearly free to try the same with her.

So what was his problem? Sith thrive on passion, draw strength from strong emotions. Was that it? Did he think this persistent tension strengthened her in some way? Because I think he has it wrong. Sith _feed_ on strong emotions. They don't grow strong on stifling them.

Or maybe he's just a masochist. That would surprise me, though.

"You're scowling mightily, Jaesa. What's the matter?" Her Lordship's voice had lost some of its arch, commanding tones, the ones she uses when in company beyond her crew.

"Nothing, my lord. Idle speculation. I was also wondering why we're bothering to stake out the Killesa estate. It isn't likely his heir will risk your anger." Because I would _never_ admit I was wondering about her personal affairs.

"That's true. But I have no desire to see that fool Jorad while he angsts and waits. It will be far more pleasant to sit outside and wait for Quinn to send a speeder or whatever."

That's certainly true.

"Don't worry, Jaesa. We'll find you a decent target to sink your claws into soon enough."

"I look forward to it, Master."

 **An Exercise in Domination XI**

Her Lordship's holocom beeped as we sat talking about our next trip to Dromund Kaas. Apparently, Her Lordship's mother still wanted to throw a kind of coming out party to celebrate Her Lordship's promotion. Since it took time to plan such things—as far as Magdalena was concerned—Her Lordship intended to inform Magdalena that 'now is a good time' as soon as she felt certain the political situation on Alderaan stabilized to the point that Moff Sarek no longer needed her to grind her boot into the leadership. Then, we'd take a few days to give Magdalena time to set everything up to her satisfaction.

It was something to my surprise that Her Lordship actually sounded pleased with the prospect, not recoiling from an onerous social engagement. She certainly never speaks of the Dromund Kaas upper class with any fondness.

I'd never attended a celebration like the one Magdalena had in mind as a guest before, so the idea scared me more than a little. However, Her Lordship has a way with words and assured me that it would be a good experience for me—I could confront my fears, assert myself outside of combat, which was as important to a Sith as a good sword arm and a cunning mind.

"Yes?"

" _My lord._ " The Captain's visage appeared. " _Lord Jorad would like a word, if you are so disposed. I have also dispatched an extraction team to pick you up. They should be arriving shortly._ "

Her Lordship immediately stood up. It was nowhere near sundown, so her threats—or rather her promises—had been taken for what they were. "Put him on."

The Captain passed the call over to Jorad. " _My lord! The Killesas have just surrendered!_ " The fool seemed over the moon about it. Couldn't he tell it was only a matter of time before Her Lordship leveraged it? " _I was going to have my men come back from the outposts to take them into custody but your Captain, er, advised against it._ "

"I would listen to him. Surrender does not imply victory. You have no idea of the extent of this betrayal."

Jorad looked disappointed, as if he thought surrender was the be-all end-all in such games as he plays. Because Alderaan treats these things like _children's_ games. War isn't a tabletop game to be won by lucky rolls of dice or a fortunate card when needed most. It's like _Gambit_ on a large scale; one should always be sure that one's opponents haven't got any nasty little last minute tricks.

"… _the Killesas also say you are a woman of great honor._ "

Her expression said 'imagine what that means to me.'

I grinned at this. As she said: _which is why I fit right in on this… charming… planet_. Hearing the nobility bleat about honor makes me want to barf. Gesselle felt much the same way.

" _I will tell Moff Sarek of your heroism immediately._ "

"This is a time when ten heads should be taken for every one traitor. The people here are soft and their bowels weak. _Squeeze_ them, but do not _crush_ them."

He'd better listen. I've seen this philosophy in practice.


	18. Chapter 18

**A Dromund Kaas Fete I**

I could not hide my nerves as Her Lordship and I made our toilette for the approaching party. I couldn't deny that I felt a bit like a doll as Her Lordship first fixed my makeup, then my hair… but nerves don't make for steady hands, and she seemed pleased with the opportunity.

It was kind of nice to sit there, being brushed and chatted to.

I'd scrubbed my face and started over twice before she found me close to tears of frustration and offered to step in. Normally I wouldn't care, but this is a big event by my standards and I felt a lot of pressure for everything to be _just right_.

…she might not even have known exactly how much upset I was dealing with, except that I threw something heavy enough to make a substantial thump when it hit the carpet, which made enough noise for her to come investigate. So she'd picked up my dress, then took me by the arm and brought me into her suite.

"You have such pretty hair," she noted, not for the first time as she finger-combed a stubborn lock patiently into place.

I watched her reflection in the mirror of her vanity table—a lovely thing of golden wood with peacocks carved into it, little black jet eyes winking at us when the light struck. She really does have _such_ pretty things. The whole suite was a marvel of cool blue and green fabrics, warm golden woods, and copper ornaments. The flowers were red today, and let off a dusky scent that soothed my nerves a little.

She seemed to glow in her cool-color surroundings. Her hair was piled elegantly onto the top of her head in a mass of curls and ripples, jeweled pins winking here and there when she turned her head. She could do less with my own, since I wore it much shorter, but what she could do she did. Her makeup was more dramatic than she usually wore it, but certainly less so than the paint she applied when working. The same could be said of mine, and I'd like to note that her hands were steady enough that she only needed one try to get my eyes just right while failing to stab me with anything.

With careful fingers, she tucked the last ends of my hair in and fastened the locks with hidden pins. "There you go. All done." Her hands came to rest briefly on my shoulders, which she gave a gentle squeeze.

"Thank you. For… everything…" I motioned to… well… everything in general.

"Not to worry," she squeezed my shoulders again. "Now, put your dress on. Meet me in the other room when you're ready." With that, she left to put on her own gown, which she'd moved out of her room so I didn't have to traipse back and forth.

I slipped out of my robe and fingered the black garment Sonjia made. Much prettier than the one I wore to any event on Alderaan (Lord Thul threw a thank-you party), it glittered slightly, little flashing winks when the light hit just right. It was without doubt the most glamorous thing I'd ever worn. It took a little work to get into it, as the material felt so soft and delicate, but once I was in I found myself smiling at my reflection. The black really did suit me. I smoothed my hands down the garment, enjoying the smooth slide for a moment before joining Her Lordship in the other room.

She had already slithered into her own gown, a striking silky thing in a copper color that, with her hair (and failing to clash with it), reminded one of a pillar of fire. Its elegance lay in its simplicity, just that fiery-toned silk which hung from an asymmetrical neckline and which hugged her curves before giving way to a sweeping skirt with a slight train in back. The color really caught her eyes.

I sighed inwardly. I tell you what: there are women on Alderaan with a million actual credits and they don't manage to look half as good as she does. It's a gift, and without her fussing I'd have felt like _such_ an ugly duckling by comparison.

"Look at you," she approved, adjusting the shoulder of her gown to lie a little more comfortably before picking up and handing me a pair of opera gloves such as she wore. "To hide your training burns," she clarified.

And here I thought she was joking about that but, as I pulled my own on, she produced a pair that matched her gown.

"Now, we've gone over it, but I'll go over it again," Her Lordship announced, inserting a small tiara of copper and pearls into her hair. She didn't even need a mirror to get it to sit perfectly. "You're a shark in the water. You are Sith, not a serving girl. I don't doubt you'll find yourself the center of attention—welcome and otherwise."

My cheeks burned; her chuckle said she knew _exactly_ why. "I…" The word came out as a kind of stifled squeak. Like something small and furry being stepped on. My mind flicked back to that solider on Alderaan, the one with the cute smile and kind manner.

"That sounded like a question more than a protest," she smirked when I didn't finish.

"It was. I… well…" Ugh.

Her smile slipped away, revealing concern. "You need not be cautious with me, Jaesa." With that, she perched on the sofa and gave me her attention.

I sat down beside her, looking at my hands knotted in my skirts, then immediately unknotted them—my Jedi robes always had _horrible_ creases from such a nervous habit; this material was much finer than those long-ago robes. It would probably get crinkled and the crinkles would never come out! "Thank you, Master," I managed. This was just… _not…_ something Jedi or well-bred ladies of Alderaan discuss. "Your availability is a gift."

She waited in patient silence.

"The Jedi kept me… stifled. Romantic interactions were… uh… s-strictly forbidden." I glanced up, wondering if I looked as red as I felt. I fully expected more than a couple false starts or aborted conversations in pursuit of this aim but, as the old proverb says, if at first you don't succeed… "When time allows… may I go hunting? Not here, obviously, I mean—"

"Why not here?" Her Lordship asked, eyebrows rising.

"I…" I honestly didn't know what to say.

"You have your own room, do you not? You are past the age of consent. And the quality of personage here is high. There is no reason, not one, that you should not be allowed to retire early if you find amiable company." She made it sound like we were discussing my taking a walk in one of the mercantile districts without her.

"But…" I felt like I was going to _die_ , even though she explained all this as she might step me through a combat sequence back aboard the _Astral Blight_.

"But what?" By now she looked genuinely perplexed.

"…I'm not… I mean… I don't want anyone to assume something… long term…" I ended in a tiny voice. The elite _always_ expect 'long term.' I'm not saying I want to make a _habit_ of one night stands or anything, but… well…

Ugh.

Her Lordship took my hands. "Jaesa, none of the men here—well, barring the other Sith, perhaps, and you'd do well to stay away them for the time being—expect long-term. In fact, they'll be delighted if you show them the slightest positive attention. But you are Sith and anyone not Force sensitive knows better than to expect anything more than a dalliance, and a dalliance at _your_ convenience not _theirs_ ; on _your_ terms, not _theirs_. All I ask is that you be selective in your liaisons and that you don't run into… _complications_."

She ended delicately, but still… I blushed all the harder. _Now_ I wished I could just die. I'd recognized the contents of the vanity's smallest drawer, but the packets of tea in there suddenly made sense. I also had to wonder… would it be… different… with a fellow Sith than with a normal person?

"Sith believe that our emotions make us stronger. Thus, it is important for you to expose yourself to a wide range of sensations and emotions. I will not push you into a liaison you aren't ready for, nor would I recommend you rush into one before _you_ are ready. But, when you are, I have only those two requirements. It's your body—do with it as you see fit."

I giggled nervously. "This is possibly the most embarrassing conversation I've ever had."

"Be thankful you're not dealing with my mother. She'd have given me advice on _technique_ if I'd asked. In fact, I believe I had to stop her from simply volunteering such information… on multiple occasions." Her Lordship shook her head ruefully. "She's a lovely woman, but _really_. It's not something one wants to think about in terms of one's parents." She gave a delicate shiver, and actual gooseflesh rose on the part of her arms I could see.

I turned absolutely crimson. "Um… just as a point of curiosity… you know? Never mind."

Her Lordship chuckled, sensing the root of the question. " _Dahdee_ purchased a fortnight with the most accomplished, highly sought after courtesan on Dromund Kaas; she was desired not only for physical reasons, but also for her daytime companionship—conversation, cleverness, certain of the fine arts, that sort of thing. It was what made her the best. I've always had first class tutors and it never occurred to him that that should be any different. So I learned a great deal beyond the questions and answers one might expect. 'Catch their eye with your looks, catch their mind with your conversation—then they're all yours.'" Her Lordship smiled fondly, as if the woman ended up being something of a friend rather than just an unconventional instructress…

Wow. What an answer… and I'm sure I've heard something in Alderaanian history about a plain-looking queen who did more or less the same thing. Suddenly the antipathy the Captain witnessed over the idea that Her Lordship should hand Renata over to Kendoh, knowing what the man had in mind, made _sense_. "You sound very fond of her."

"Very, but it's not like you're thinking. Arianna was… she is older than I, naturally, but perhaps the closest thing I had to an actual friend. She could afford to be friendlier than most of my tutors, partly because it was her job, partly because—as she put it—'what are your parents going to do? _Test_ you to see how much you've learned?'"

I actually laughed at that, unsure what to think. It was a very, _very_ valid point. I also had the feeling that whatever Arianna _was_ , she was no longer a courtesan. "So… since this is an embarrassing conversation already… what do I do if I'm… well, uh, _done_ and… and don't want him to stay?"

"Tell him to get dressed and get lost. It's your room," she answered frankly. So frankly, in fact, that I laughed before realizing she was in deadly earnest. "Are you certain you're… ready for this? It seems to me as though you're about to take a large step and I see that the viewpoints you were raised with are… more conservative than is popular among Sith."

Her genuine concern, which I could sense if I reached out for her, warmed my heart and steadied my nerves a bit. "I'll… be discerning," I answered, touched by the concern for my wellbeing her last remark and her expression represented. The truth was that I wanted to shed my Jedi past and, more than that, I wanted to experience something that would be more than duty and less than a contract. More than that, this had the allure of being previously forbidden.

And the wider galaxy makes _such_ a fuss about it. I'm curious to experience why.

"You are Sith. And you are _my_ apprentice. Those are two very good reasons to think more highly of yourself than you do at present," she declared. "To help you remember this, you may have loan of these." She released my hands, produced a case from the table by the sofa and, holding it in her lap, opened it. "I think they were my great-grandmother's," she mused, indicating the sparkly black earrings and the necklace comprised of several rows of tiny faceted beads.

"I… are you sure?" I asked, hesitantly touching one of the earrings. From what I understood of her family, Magdalena was at the point of starting to sell off this sort of thing when she married Lord Augustine. I didn't doubt they'd be all the more precious to Magdalena because she'd almost lost them. And here was Her Lordship lending them to me.

"If I weren't I would not have gone to the trouble of fetching them," she answered before getting up, walking over to another table, and opening a similar box. "You're welcome to hang about with me if you feel overwhelmed, but you are not chained to my side if you decide you wish to mingle on your own. No doubt _Dahdee,_ Uncle Tim and I will withdraw at some point to play _Gambit_. You are welcome to observe if _Dahdee_ doesn't goad you into actually playing. Any of the servants can direct you, should you choose to follow along."

"Is the Captain coming?" I asked suddenly.

"I sent him an invitation, of course, but the man is abstemious about anything other than _work_ ," she answered carelessly without ceasing her final preparations.

I had to suppress a smile: it sounded to me, only because I knew her, like she was a bit disappointed. Not surprised, but disappointed all the same. I found myself wondering if she had gone all-out with regards to her looks and clothes on the off chance he showed up.

"I _would_ like to see him in his dress uniform," she mused, putting in her earrings. "There is nothing, my dear Jaesa, quite like a military man in uniform." Her tone had decidedly suggestive purr to it, like the only thing better was a (certain) military man _out_ of it—but that was hardly something one said in polite conversation, so the original remark stood. "Now, do you need a few moments to admire yourself until you feel confident, or are you ready to make your formal debut?"

The debut is in all actuality hers, as this is the party her mother wanted to throw after Her Lordship was elevated to the rank of Sith Lord. However, I was something new and being exposed with her.

Her Lordship wrapped a length of silk around her arms to hang from her elbows—in case of chill, I have no doubt—then smiled. "Are you ready?"

"I… yyyyes," I announced, trying to sound more confident than I felt while drawing out the word.

"Remember—if anyone is catty with you, be catty back. If anyone annoys you, make it known that it displeases you. Flex your claws and get a feel for them. It's never too early to start."

I nodded, beginning to tremble as we walked down the hall that would take us, eventually, to the main reception room.

 **A Dromund Kaas Fete II**

We joined the party just as the first trickle of guests gave way to the brunt of the turnout, announced as Sith Lord Hellanix Balanchine-Renault and Sith Apprentice Jaesa Willsaam. It was strange to hear the introduction as I followed Her Lordship down the staircase a step or two behind her. I felt rather as though I shared a name with someone else as I walked, remembering that sad, scared little girl on Alderaan or Tython.

Her Lordship exchanged pleasantries as she moved purposefully, but not in a rushed fashion, towards where her parents stood welcoming guests coming up out of the foyer.

Magdalena's appearance was as fascinating as it was the day I met her. Tonight she wore sumptuous blue velvet with silver embroidery and a queen's ransom of sapphires and diamonds. Her makeup enhanced her green eyes and… and she'd even taken the liberty of painting very faint green-blue veins upon her pale skin, highlighting her alabaster complexion.

Lord Augustine wore a black, sleeveless robe (this one lined in deep red) for the occasion over a simple formal suit and carried his lightsaber at his hip. He looked like a man trending towards utter boredom, but was content to deal with it for the time being.

Her Lordship and I arrived to bright approval from Magdalena. "Oh, Hella, dear, you look marvelous. And this young lady—is that _really_ Jaesa? Oh, you do clean up well, don't you _dahling_? And Grandmother Rose's beads look simply stunning on you." She lifted a length of jet beads with a finger before letting it fall back into place.

"Thank you for the loan of them Lady Renault."

"Not at all, _dahling_ ," Magdalena smiled graciously.

Her Lordship was on the point of taking me in to mingle some more when she stopped, her expression opening into genuine surprise. "Captain Quinn?"

I'd never seen her so discomposed… if that was even the word, and I wasn't sure it was. I think it was more that it took her a few more nanoseconds than usual to process and respond. But for a decisive personality like Her Lordship, that's almost forever.

Standing behind two couples in extravagant garb (and ridiculous hats) was, indeed, the Captain. "My lord." He bowed politely, a subtle shimmer of amusement that didn't show on his face hanging around him.

I only caught it because I lived on a ship with him: there was a trace of smugness, even amusement, at the reaction his unexpected and very spruce appearance elicited. Well, if I caught the signs of Her Lordship's discomposure, there's no way he didn't. He'd be looking for them, after all. Can I call this _impishness_ on his part?

"This is _the_ Captain Quinn? I'm so glad you accepted our invitation!" Magdalena beamed, taking him in with bright interest.

" _Your_ invitation?" Her Lordship asked. I'd have almost said she was hurt at the thought that the Captain would accept her parents' invitation but not hers. That might be in her head, though… but then again it might not.

"Technically _mine_ ," Lord Augustine said to her in a low tone, almost a growl.

Well, maybe the Captain isn't here in response to Her Lordship's polite invitation. More likely Lord Augustine was one or two words short of _commanding_ the Captain to present himself.

"I'm touched by your interest in my crew," Her Lordship said tartly.

"You should be."

While Her Lordship and Lord Augustine exchanged their _sotto voce_ barbs, Magdalena hastily greeted and waved the other two couples of guests ahead of the Captain to join the party—much to their chagrin at being bundled into the house without much ceremony.

The Captain looked as composed as ever, but I thought that was just show. This isn't his usual social arena; anyone feels discomposed when outside familiar waters.

"My goodness, _dahling_ , you didn't tell me he was young and handsome! I was expecting someone more like Tim," Magdalena observed.

"I do _not_ require a minder, Mother," Her Lordship declared.

The remark was met by a snort from Lord Augustine, which Her Lordship pointedly ignored.

The Captain _did_ look handsome in his dark grey dress uniform—the cut was perfect, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow hips—adorned with medals and tokens indicating merit and achievement (which he never wore day to day) that glittered against the dark fabric. As an officer, a loop of black braid that indicated he was in the direct service of a Sith looped at one arm, and a delicate red teardrop on either of his black shoulder tabs (a general sign of service, direct or indirect, to a Sith) indicated that the Sith was ranked a Lord among Sith.

…that Sith. Right there. The feminine red-headed one.

Her Lordship was right, though: there's nothing quite like a military man in uniform and the Captain exemplified this. If Her Lordship isn't enough of a deterrent, the Captain may be faced with the prospect of beating off doe-eyed ladies with a stick… or seeing if he can set a speed record for returning to the _Astral Blight_ as soon as 'bare minimum of courtesy' has been reached.

He'd already attracted some attention since Magdalena brought it to him.

Her Lordship kept her interest polite.

I couldn't help noticing that the Captain kept glancing at her whenever he could do so without being too obvious. I don't know if he's ever seen her really dressed up, but clearly not often enough for the impact to become lost on him.

If she was hoping to catch his attention (on the off chance he showed up)… mission successful.

 **A Dromund Kaas Fete III**

Her Lordship, Lord Augustine, the Captain, Moff Thorne, and two others I didn't know retreated upstairs about an hour after the event began to play _Gambit_. The Captain seemed relieved to escape the bevy of ladies making eyes at him—eyes and several _suggestions_ if I'm not mistaken. They looked like butterflies until they scattered like flies off a corpse the instant Her Lordship descended among them to rescue him. If they thought there was something going on there then they had to know that they were no competition for _her_.

It must be nice.

Anyway, the Captain seemed to me to be the coldest of cold fish for them; not a blush or discomforted moment, only the most cordial of courtesy—all in all, he made himself ridiculously boring. I would know: I was standing right there, off to one side and eavesdropping from my own circle of conversational partners. Apparently only Her Lordship had that effect of discomposing him… or was worth being interesting for. It would have pampered her ego had she been paying him any attention while he was stuck being courteous and thoroughly disinterested with his admirers.

I had the vague impression Her Lordship left him, ostensibly because propriety demanded it, to deal with his admirers unaided on purpose so he would appreciate just how genteel and respectful—for a Sith—she was by comparison.

I don't think he needed the reminder. In fact, I suspect the only thing he appreciated by the exercise was just how superior a woman Her Lordship was in her simple gown, comparatively understated makeup, and carefully selected jewels. One would have thought such simplicity would have made her look underdressed and unremarkable. The effect was quite the opposite: she made the rest of the ladies in their silks and velvets, jewels and plumes, look overdressed and ridiculously artificial—an effect she shared with Magdalena.

I, myself, stayed to mingle. Ten minutes of watching Her Lordship engage in barbed conversation left me wanting to try my hand. I never learned to appreciate _Gambit_ quite the way Her Lordship and the Captain do.

It wasn't nearly as hard as I imagined—the idea is to say what you really think in a way no one can take offense to. I won't say I didn't take my lumps, but after half an hour of sipping drinks on an overstuffed couch, I was down to a group of three, two men and a lady near my own age.

One of the men smarmed up to me in hopes of getting a foot in the door with Her Lordship, a way to name drop. He was a shallow creature at best; the only reason he was still sitting with me was because I hadn't managed to drive him off.

The woman was the sister of the second fellow. I think she didn't like me much, but didn't want to leave her brother alone in my society.

The brother was closer to my age than the other two, handsome and reasonably well-spoken. He, at least, seemed to genuinely enjoy my conversation—apparently I was easier to talk to than Her Lordship, who (he confessed) scared him and always had. She was just… too _much_ , so he said.

He was utterly adorable… and I didn't like his sister much.

 **A Dromund Kaas Fete IV**

I chickened out. I felt so inwardly discomposed by the time I was ready to make my first move that I came up with an excuse and fled to join the others upstairs where the game of _Gambit_ would be red hot and full on. I felt disgusted with myself, but there we go.

The two men I didn't know had already been pushed out of the game, though they stayed to watch, sipping drinks, nibbling on snacks, and occasionally commenting or conversing with the other players.

Moff Thorne, Lord Augustine, Her Lordship and the Captain had each taken over one side of the table. They really did all look like generals standing there with grim looks on their faces as they surveyed their opponents' positions and assemblages of troops.

I came to rest at Her Lordship's elbow, just as she launched a handful of armies—red—into a blue mass belonging to the Captain. Having decimated it, she ended her turn. I think the move perplexed him, as if it was something superficial and he couldn't see past the surface to what her real game was.

Lord Augustine and Moff Thorne—the latter of whom succeeded Her Lordship—both regarded the exchange. I thought the Moff saw whatever it was she was trying to do, but if Lord Augustine did he didn't show it.

"Watch your flank," one of the other two soldiers muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

The Captain nodded once to show he heard.

Her Lordship's smile was almost an audible thing.

I think Her Lordship will leave the Captain in-game until she gets her father and godfather out of it. I also think the Captain will do more or less the same thing—they're used to playing one another. Better the player you know… which was why her attack on that one flank of his was weird.

A game of _Gambit_ can take an hour or two. A really good game of _Gambit_ can take several hours. This turned out to be one of the really good games: the two soldiers excused themselves once it started getting late, leaving just the people I knew. The longer the game wore on, the more grim and general-like the players became. One would think they were directing an actual war. It was clear they were all _very_ good.

The Captain and Her Lordship managed to push Moff Thorne out (and he put up a good fight). Then Lord Augustine and the Captain pushed Her Lordship out (she also put up a good fight, but both Lord Augustine and the Captain knew how to keep her from getting enough steam to do anything tide-turning). The Captain and Lord Augustine finally got into a kind of deadlock until the Captain broke it and proceeded to smash his way through Lord Augustine's forces with methodical prejudice.

Lord Augustine, however annoyed he was—who likes being slammed into the floor in his own home?—nevertheless didn't look unimpressed. Her Lordship paints him as being eminently capable with the game, like a grandmaster if _Gambit_ had ranked matches and that sort of thing. But, like Her Lordship, he doesn't like people 'letting' him win. If you win you deserve it, and gave him a good run in the process. It's the good run that really matters.

Moff Thorne didn't bother hiding his amusement—apparently it was time someone whipped Lord Augustine. Remind him to be humble.

The Captain regarded Lord Augustine's last territory, a single little holdout in a sea of blue, then turned to Her Lordship and silently offered her the dice.

Moff Thorne actually laughed at this, shaking his head in bemused but wholehearted approval.

Lord Augustine's expression twisted, as if he found this display mildly unpalatable. Whether because the killing blow went to his daughter, or because the gesture parodied Sith/Imperial affairs (the Imperials get the Sith in position for a killing blow), or because he wasn't used to losing, I wasn't sure…

…or maybe Lord Augustine didn't like seeing the Captain flirt with his daughter right in front of him. Because, according to the Captain's and Her Lordship's weird way of going about things, that was what it was. Flirting… if it's not too mild a term. Some men do flowers, but apparently that's not the Captain's style—she's Sith, so a killing blow is much nicer than flowers.

If Her Lordship was a different woman, she might have blushed—particularly when the Captain jostled the dice coaxingly in his hand, blue eyes glittering.

Looking pleased (and a smidge self-conscious) she took the dice delicately, the pads of her gloved fingers stroking along his equally gloved palm (I felt myself grow warm and tried to tell myself there was no reason for it!). She gave them a shake, then cast them onto the board as Lord Augustine did the same.

Finally, under her relentless assault, the last black piece disappeared from the board.

"Thank you, Captain," Her Lordship declared, handing the dice back to him.

"Not at all, my lord," he answered, mouth tugging towards a smile.

You know, for once… I think _she's_ the one who's going to be having funny dreams. Even if the victory isn't wholly hers, she still gets the killing blow, and beating Lord Augustine at _Gambit_ is her second dearest ambition. While not fulfilled, this comes remarkably close to doing so.

And there's no way the Captain doesn't know that. It was an elegant gesture on his part.

"Well," Moff Thorne announced, effectively running over something—probably scathing—Lord Augustine meant to say. "It's been a _stimulating_ evening. Thank you, Captain Quinn, for enlivening the game."

The Captain looked away from Her Lordship. "Thank you, Moff Thorne."

"Walk me out, Augie. It's polite," Moff Thorne added in a genuine undertone to Lord Augustine. It couldn't be clearer he wanted to give his goddaughter and her admirer a few minutes out from under Lord Augustine's critical eyes.

The Moff stopped long enough to hug Her Lordship. "Goodnight, love."

"Goodnight, Uncle Tim." She pressed her cheek against his, then watched him and Lord Augustine leave. "Thank you again, Captain," she noted once her father and godfather were gone. "I do seem to have kept you up rather late."

Not for the first time, I'm sure.

"Not at all. As Moff Thorne said, it's been a stimulating evening."

"Yes, the look on _Dahdee's_ face," she snickered behind one hand. "That was _brilliant_."

The Captain had to work not to smile broadly at the recollection, but he managed. "Good evening, my lord."

"I'll walk you out," Her Lordship offered, tone teasingly amiable as her eyes glittered. "As Uncle Tim said, it's polite."

"Indeed." With that and after a brief pause, he offered her his arm which she took. Thus linked, they sauntered out of the game room, apparently quite content with the evening, chatting quietly.

I exhaled sharply once I was alone. I know we missed most of the actual party… but it was a fun evening. And I rather think the Captain was responding to Her Lordship's invitation rather than to Lord Augustine's summons. I mean, it's the first opportunity he's had to wear his full dress uniform since Her Lordship's promotion—which means the first place he's recognized as being an officer in direct service to a Sith Lord… is at that Sith Lord's party.

Also, he didn't duck out as soon as the minimum polite duration of stay was reached.

More than both those things though, he initiated physical contact with her. Her Lordship is very hands-to-herself with regards to the Captain unless she has explicit or implied permission to behave otherwise. So, for the most part, such things are at his discretion. I don't honestly understand why; it's obvious (for a Sith) that he finds her touch pleasurable. But an arm-in-arm walk is an excuse for close proximity, and Her Lordship would appreciate that. They didn't look in any hurry to reach the exit, at any rate.

A faint pop of pleasure from Her Lordship eventually crossed our bond. It couldn't have been a goodnight kiss, but whatever the Captain did left her feeling quite pleased. An apropos end to the evening. The cherry on the sundae.

It doesn't take much to please her…

…oh. Maybe I've been looking at this wrong: the Captain isn't the most demonstrative of men. So when he _is_ , even if it's a small gesture, it's a noteworthy occurrence. On a relative scale, a big deal.

Note to self: stick to uncomplicated men.


	19. Chapter 19

**On the Dark Temple**

Her Lordship did not particularly care if I left the house or even Kaas City as long as she could contact me if she needed to and as long as I didn't get killed or find myself in need of rescue. She might work with me extensively to hammer into me what I needed to know to stay alive in Sith society, but she also encouraged me to look for answers, experiences, and personal limitations myself.

One does not go into the Dromund Kaas jungles to shirk one's training. Quite the contrary; at the very least, I'd probably run afoul of the local wildlife at some point. In-the-field combat training is something you can never have enough of.

No, my real goal in leaving the relative safety of Kaas City was to visit a place Her Lordship had alluded to but never really discussed. Somewhere she'd been but was not interested in returning to—mostly because she had no business being there…. but partly because the place unnerved her, would unnerve _any_ sensible person.

The Dark Temple was supposed to be one of those places where the Force not only gathered in strength, but where it was decisively steeped in the Dark Side. According to her, when the Emperor claimed Dromund Kaas over a millennium ago, he reorganized ley-lines within the Force (my wording) to make the Dark Temple the epicenter of Dark Force energy.

I probably wasn't supposed to go there, but I was curious. Achingly curious.

It always rains on Dromund Kaas. A non-rainy day is met with pleasure. A sunny day is almost grounds for an impromptu holiday. That was how I felt, anyway. When I set out, the weather was fair—meaning it wasn't pouring buckets. By the time I got halfway to the Temple the weather turned vicious—heavy, hard rain, thunder, lightning, the whole shebang. And it was _cold_.

I was just in sight of the Dark Temple when I felt it. It was like stepping under a waterfall, the sudden presence of the Dark Side was so strong but so localized. It didn't just bleed into the air around it: the sense of darkness was not there one moment and was absolutely crushing the next.

I actually stopped walking, stood rigid and gasping for breath as if with cold as the pressure of _power_ , malevolent and dark, pressed against me as if it could drive me into the mud. It was unlike anything I'd ever experienced, light or dark. The Force battered about, whipping and thrashing as if the darkness in it was eager to escape its invisible confines and spread the Dark Side's grip to the whole world, just swallow it up.

It made Korriban, with its baleful aura of brooding, feel like a vacation spot.

The rain didn't seem half so cold and although my breath still came out as steam, the presence of the Dark Side was so strong that it blunted all other perceptions. It was terrifying, awe-inspiring, distracting. There were _things_ here, and darkness undreamed of: rages, woes, terrors and hatreds so deep that if the Force was a barrel, they would be the mess caught where emptying cups couldn't quite reach. The accumulated dregs of centuries rotted and festered, fermenting as if forgotten.

Fortunately, I had stopped being afraid of the dark.

It was a massive building, sunk into a cleared area. The jungle wasn't even trying to eat it. In fact, as I looked around, I saw that the delineation between the space the jungle occupied and the space occupied by the Temple was stark. As if the Temple had some force of will all its own, the energies around the Temple held the jungles back.

Or as if the jungles sensed something and recoiled from it.

Surely any non-Sensitive who went in there would go mad, utterly crushed by the Dark Side. This wasn't a hungry kind of darkness; it was darkness that couldn't be anything else and couldn't help the effects it had on others. Not that it would care, even if it could. In many ways, it was like the ocean.

It could have been minutes or it could have been years, but I felt myself… acclimating… to the strength of the Force and the potency of darkness. Finally, I could approach the Temple. I had to wonder if this was because it had investigated me and felt me worthy… or maybe it leeched into me until I became enough like it to be less affected by it.

They were questions and considerations I'd never had about the Force or the nature of Light and Dark. I didn't doubt this was the sort of thing scholars argued over, so my opportunities of getting straight answers were low. However, I had an opportunity to do my own investigation.

I'd just have to avoid getting caught being somewhere I shouldn't be.

The interior of the Temple was as chilly as it was outside, but without the rain and wind—only the sensation was a double one. The Force brooded, resulting in a sense of malevolent chill. I expected to see my breath rising into the air as steam only for the warmth to be immediately stolen by my environs.

I shivered, shaking off water. The place was full of noise: shouts and screams, whimpers and moans, some real others echoing through the Force. The air seemed to slide sinister over my skin, as if studying me, seeing where and how I could fit into the grand scheme of things.

It would twist me if it could, Sith or not, swallow me up if I let it. It fascinated as much as it repelled.

I found a corner, somewhere I could put my back to two walls and have a good view of the room I stopped in, then knelt, hands on my lap. All I could think was that I was in a place of ghosts—angry ones. Because beneath the shroud of darkness there _was_ fear and great anger. They were like… like bad odors masked by strange-smelling incense.

I toyed with trying to meditate but decided it was just a bad idea. I needed to be present, needed to be _definite_ or I'd be redefined, encompassed and repurposed by the darkness. Instead I sat there, gazing out into the room, feeling the darkness assailing me, trying to wriggle its way into my head, trying to push me into a role of its choosing—or, rather, into some role unfulfilled.

It was like fighting with wind or weather.

As I did so, I found myself growing increasingly aware of the individual eddies and movements within the Force, the delicate oscillations of energy that enabled what I perceived as _will_ and smaller wills seeking to take some semblance of form, something that could experience and be experienced. So many delicate nuances I thought I could stay and study forever…

I shook myself as my mind began to sag, lulled into complacency by the desire to study, to experience. That was one way the darkness got in and did strange things, I realized. A Jedi maxim came back to me, leaving me deeply uneasy: _the longer you look into the Dark Side, the longer the Dark Side looks into you. It's why we stay as far from it as possible._

I tried to imagine what a Jedi would feel if they came into a place like this. Such a visit would probably end in madness.

…and yet _I_ walked away. _Me_. Not them, even if they could come and experience it. This place would tear a Jedi to shreds, mind and body.

I smiled as I exited the building, to find the sun just coming up, turning the steel grey into dove grey.

The sun had risen… and the Darkness simply didn't care.

 **On New Assignments**

Several days after my trip to the Dark Temple, I received summons to meet Her Lordship at the Citadel. I arrived first, having been exploring the city a bit on my own, so I took the time to practice, making myself as small and unobtrusive as possible. _She_ found me quickly and easily, but as I stood by one of the support pillars, no one else seemed to notice. Their eyes slid across me as if I were a chameleon.

"Practicing hard?" Her Lordship asked approvingly as I fell in with her.

"I've given some thought about what you said. Having been obvious and blatant on Alderaan, I decided it would be best to try something new here. The right tactic for the right locale," I answered.

"Excellent. Experimentation is often the road to new shots in your locker." Her approval for this initiative and personal weighing of advice—rather than accepting it at face value—rippled across our bond.

We entered Baras' offices to find the Darth pouring over what looked like reports and paperwork. He stood leaning heavily on the desk, shifting the datapads left and right as if looking for something in particular.

I hung back by the door, eyes downcast, making myself small, unnoticeable, unimportant… all the while seething, way deep down where it couldn't give me away, that it was probably all too easy for this fat Darth to ignore his protégé's apprentice _now_ when he'd been so fixated on her for the past months. I worked to keep it down, but I hope she _massacres_ him and sooner rather than later.

I'd like to see him bleed. Bleed and beg before she puts him out of all out miseries.

"You summoned me, my lord?" Her Lordship asked simply.

"Yes." He raised a hand and the door slid shut, pushed closed through the Force. "This is a private conversation."

"Shall I ask Jaesa to leave?"

"No, no. I suppose it doesn't matter. Though I expect her to understand the meaning of the word _classified_." The light skated across his mask as he looked in my direction.

I nodded once. It took effort not to have a look at him through my gift, to find out what made him tick. Having noticed me for a brief minute, he let me fade back into the background.

"My master on the Dark Council—Darth Vengean—wants war," Baras announced. "Not just petty skirmishes tiptoeing around the Treaty of Coruscant, but full scale war."

Her Lordship ensured I knew of the Dark Council, who was on it, what their politics were. Vengean was a warmonger, so this wish of his should not be at all surprising. Openly disgusted by the Treaty of Coruscant and _everyone_ who had a hand in it, Her Lordship had cautioned me to take note: the Emperor signed the Treaty but Vengean still had his head despite his dissidence, which went so far as to approach actual rebelliousness. That in itself should tell me almost all I needed to know about the man for the time being.

And now, the man was trying to break the Treaty on his own initiative.

Darth Decimus, of military strategy and the one to whom the Imperial Armed Forces ultimately answered to, would be livid.

Darth Marr—whom Her Lordship painted as the strongest voice on the Dark Council—wouldn't approve: his Sphere was defense of the Empire, and if he went to war he'd want to be sure the Empire had all the resistance to attack as a Senator's underground durasteel bunker.

Darth Vowrawn—Logistics and Production—would want advance notice so the Imperial war machine would be properly supplied _before_ the first strike.

Darth Zhorrid—unless she's been replaced and I simply haven't heard about it— _ought_ to be upset since she has directorship of Imperial Intelligence, and everyone knows the SIS (Strategic Information Service) is quite good at what they do. Their opposite number would need advance warning so as to prepare to go head to head with the SIS.

A glow of pleasure accompanied the surfacing of all these facts so quickly and easily. I'd discuss my impressions with Her Lordship later—there's no way she wouldn't grill me about what I picked up during this meeting. A sense of comfortable satisfaction settled in my stomach.

While with the Jedi, I was only vaguely aware of who sat on the Jedi Council—and not all of them—let alone what they handled specifically.

"I have been tasked by my master to find the means of compelling the Council to tear up the Treaty. You shall be my executor in this."

I'd heard a bit about this, too: the situation between the Republic and the Empire was growing increasingly unstable, partly because of arguments over who owned what. There were two worlds that caught my attention: Taris and Quesh, both of which were being fought over while everyone claimed otherwise.

From what I could tell, Quesh was a true battlefield, but was suffered to be so because the Hutts were involved. The families of the Cartel are all quick to make a profit and sometimes war (or, at least, conflict) is profitable. So the Republic and the Empire are allowed to squabble there as long as they don't inconvenience the Hutts (who are no less partisan than anyone else, and use the conflict to strike at one another).

Taris was a re-colonization effort. It wasn't that the Empire was so very interested in Taris itself, but the symbolic value of the Republic reclaiming Taris—destroyed by a Sith centuries ago—and making it a viable place to put new colonies was not something to be overlooked. It was one of those 'you can beat us down but you can't keep us down' statements. The message was a powerful one, hence the Empire's interest in Taris.

"I rely on your competency. The Emperor would not have signed the Treaty if he did not have good reason. However, times and circumstances change. I believe I have found the way to move both the Dark Council and the Emperor happily toward war."

I wanted to shift where I stood, but suppressed the impulse. The idea of being part of the opening action was… tantalizing; it made my skin tingle. Because, of course, Her Lordship would take me with her. How could my training _not_ benefit from such participation?

I squelched my already squelched feelings, determined to give nothing away to this Darth. Still, the promise of moving from small skirmishes to something less… less like playing in a kiddie pool… was exciting. Scary, but exciting.

"I'm fascinated to hear where this is going," Her Lordship answered, cocking her head so her sweep of red hair slid to one side, like a plumb line finding center.

Baras was silent for a moment, indulgent humor perceptible. He picked up a datapad and beckoned Her Lordship to join him. A brief motion of her hand indicated she expected me to draw closer as well, but to continue hanging back. "Many believe the reason we were unable to achieve outright victory and were forced into the negotiated peace were due in large part to the efforts of one man. This is that man: General Karastace Gonn." He gave Her Lordship the datapad.

"Impressive, to be sure," Her Lordship answered, negligently handing me the datapad once she'd scrutinized it.

"Gonn operates from the shadows and single-handedly prevented the Fringe systems from falling to us. After years without a hint of his whereabouts I have obtained—through various means—intelligence as to where Gonn is going be."

He's been ahead of this sneaky Darth for nearly two decades? That _is_ impressive. He's going to die, of course, now that Her Lordship's been set upon him. Still, there's nothing wrong in recognizing a foe's merits. Two decades is a long time.

Karastace Gonn silvering at the temples but with a beard/mustache that was still brown. He had a solemn, somber look, squinty-eyed as though he'd rather not be photographed and would prefer to be doing something constructive instead. It was hard to tell, but from what I could see of his shoulders he wasn't ready to lead from behind his desk just yet.

"I take it I'm to make a corpse of him?"

Baras chuckled softly, a sinister sound however appreciative it might be. "Indeed, my apprentice. He will be on Nar Shaddaa. One of my informants will meet you and conduct you where you need to be at the appointed hour."

"Does your intelligence also know what I'll be walking into?"

"Gonn is meeting with traitorous Imperial elements," Baras answered.

"Do we know what this meeting is about?"

Baras was silent for a moment. "We don't know with certainty. However, Gonn holds the Fringe systems by anticipating our every move. Perhaps these are some of his informants. Perhaps they are actual agents. Regardless, Imperial elements present at this meeting are traitors to a man and must be eradicated. We will not appear weak on this."

Wasteful. Question them first. Then kill them. Publically. Make a show…

…or let their own factions—military or Sith—make a show. It's never safe to assume Sith can't turn or be bought… and the thought made my blood boil. They don't know how good a system they've got. I'll take the danger over the Jedi any day.

"I will not forget it, master."

"See that you do not. Go, gather your minions, ready your ship, and head for Nar Shaddaa," Baras nodded. "You have four days."

Because, of course, she'll need time to resupply and refuel. It was courteous of him to give her advance notice.

I handed Her Lordship back the datapad, which she moved towards Baras' desk, silently inquiring if he wanted it back. He didn't say anything, merely waved her to take it and go.

She did so, bowing her head before withdrawing.

I copied her, and followed, remaining silent until we'd returned to her home and she'd made contact with all the necessary parties. "Is this is?" I asked, trying not to sound excited, as she hung up on the last holocall.

"Is this what?" Her Lordship asked, her tone tinged with teasing.

"Your master. Is he going to make a move against his own?" The idea was exciting… but at the same time _if_ Baras reaches the Dark Council, is Her Lordship enough of an asset to remain in his service? Or will she have become a liability? When does the master anticipate betrayal and attack his apprentice? Her Lordship doesn't seem inclined to precipitate her own advancement. She _likes_ being Sith and is content to flex her wings and fists to find out where her limits are.

"It's possible," she answered thoughtfully. "In fact, I'd say it's probable. The Dark Council isn't fond of being undermined. They tend to take care of their own housekeeping and if Vengean oversteps… let's hope his replacement is better-selected than Jadus'." Her Lordship sniffed at the mention of Zhorrid—Jadus' replacement—which she'd done in the past when the topic came up. I had the impression Her Lordship found Zhorrid highly substandard, a butt in a seat and little more; this remark clinched it.

Zhorrid was the late Darth Jadus' daughter and sole apprentice; Her Lordship indicated Zhorrid was a childlike mind with an overestimation of her own skill and value. Basically, if one kowtows to her and pampers her ego, one can navigate around her with a certain degree of safety; apparently most aren't like that. I had the impression Lord Augustine knows one or two of the Dark Council—not on a social basis, but enough that the Darth in question might stop—or stoop—to say hello or something equally courteous.

Having met Lord Augustine, I could see why. And still under the impression that Lord Augustine had something to do with the flow of money within the Sith Order, if a man appropriates funds one of your pet projects you know who he is. I don't know if that's actually how it is or not. Her Lordship can be sketchy about her father past what I need to know.

"It doesn't matter," Her Lordship mused. "Zhorrid won't last too much longer. I'm amazed even she couldn't tell it was time to run for the hills."

Many would say Her Lordship overestimates herself, too, but they don't know her. Her Lordship is too aware of her own skills. Any embellishment is a veneer before an idiot hits bedrock. Of course, most people would assume a higher opinion of self than is deserved… and I'm learning the benefits to letting people see one thing while actually being something else. In fact, I have a few ideas for application, because Her Lordship is more likely to judge me and my own stability based on what she sees out of the field than in it.

Regardless, it was an amazing feeling, to be so acquainted with the who's who of the Empire. I couldn't tell if Her Lordship's attention to the leadership was a Sith trait or an aristocratic one. Maybe both, since she seemed to be a walking who's who of Society's members as well…

…then it suddenly hit me the enormity of what Vengean was doing. He was about to go against the Treaty, the Emperor, _and_ the Dark Council and expected to _survive_ doing so. He's either insanely powerful, ridiculously entrenched, or just plain delusional. I wasn't sure which it was, but the audacity I finally appreciated at its full magnitude was just…

…wow. Just… wow.

"Go. Gather your things. We leave as soon as everyone is aboard."

"Yes, Master." I inclined my head then hurried off to obey her, still puzzling over Vengean and his audacity. I was definitely impressed.

 **The Fleet**

I'd been to the Republic's Fleet, that giant marketplace and congregating ground hanging in space near Coruscant, before. It had been such a busy, bustling place, overwhelming and unpleasant because it was overwhelming. I was scared of everything then. Not (or maybe just less) so now, which made the experience exciting.

As Her Lordship said, it's important to seek out new experiences.

Even better, Her Lordship shooed Vette and me off to do a little shopping on her behalf… whether so she could have some time to herself, to allow me the new experience without her hanging around, or so she could take advantage of time with the Captain and without 'kids' running around… that was anyone's guess.

I didn't particularly care. I had a responsibility to fulfill, however unglamorous it might be, and after that time to spend doing as I liked. Responsibility and freedom; they're things beyond price.

The Empire maintained a similar orbiting—can I call it a bazaar?—archipelago of ships and small stations between Korriban and Dromund Kaas. The bazaar itself was localized on the Vaiken Spacedock, a massive station that was hard to miss, even in space.

It was a true social nexus, packed with members of the Imperial military in their grey uniforms—or Imperials in plain clothes—haggled, argued and chattered, sharing purchases with friends like normal people would. Of course, I had the Republic's distorted view of the Imperial military that paints them as so many unthinking, unfeeling, programmed drones. Here they were people; I even heard one of them stressing out about his daughter's upcoming birthday and his need to find the right present for it. Even more funny was his wife's laughing response that anything childish was acceptable to a three-year-old provided daddy brought it home.

Mercenaries who were open about their profession were everywhere, going about their business as usual if didn't stand out, though they occasionally took issue with one another. Never enough to cause security to crack down on them, but enough that everyone knew to give them a little room. Just a bit of grandstanding, as Vette sneeringly noted the first time we passed one of these altercations.

Bounty hunters traipsed to and fro, convoying carbonite blocks, complaining to one another about the cumbersome cargo, and making plans for what to do with the payouts once they had them.

A great many Mandalorians peppered cantinas and cafes, helmets set aside to reveal a strange mix of humans and aliens, conversing loudly in that garbled babble of theirs while 'talking with their hands', without appearing to pay attention to the Imperial convention of looking down on nonhumans—and that _was_ a problem I had with the Empire.

And that was without the hawkers and shopkeeps—many of whom had callers attracting the attention of passers-by—peddling just about anything you could imagine from all across the galaxy, or the Sith strutting around and shopping like normal (if haughty I'm-better-than-you-are) people. Aliens I'd never seen (or heard of) before meandered here and there, adding splashes of exoticism to the already eclectic crowd.

And it was loud! Everyone seemed to be talking at once and shouting so as to be heard over the general din. Announcements repeated in several languages blared from the intercom system. Each shop seemed to have some kind of ambient music playing, which clashed fearfully with everything else.

If you could find a window into space, one could see the steady flow of ships in and out of dock—speedy frigates, heavy warships, midsized merchant vessels, every kind of ship imaginable and in every condition! Several seemed to be held together with engineering tape and good luck; others were so obviously brand new that they probably hadn't forgotten the bottle of spirits that would have been cracked across the hull… or so Republic tradition went.

I was glad Vette was present, if only so I wouldn't feel totally lost. I thought I might like to stand somewhere, stock still, to just watch and listen to the commotion. Somehow, the Republic Fleet seemed less lively. Or maybe this place seemed so lively because it wasn't what I'd been taught to expect—or expected given what I'd seen of the sedate grey uniforms that made up such a bulk of the Empire's citizenry.

"Come on _my lord_ , move your butt," Vette hissed.

I'd done it again, really had stopped walking in the middle of the thoroughfare to just look. I made my feet move, following Vette into the Auction and Exchange District. I call it a district because I didn't know what else to call it: a whole, massive, sprawling space full of kiosks, auction droids, and a few sapients calling out prices and motioning to buyers while still more offered bids.

These real-time auctions turned out to be for large or very rare items—things that needed some excitement generated.

Vette led us over to one of the kiosks, around which sapients clustered like ants on forgotten crumbs at a picnic.

"Hey, girl! Vette!"

I turned to the sound, which was quite close. For a few moments Vette looked puzzled, then recognition snapped into her expression. "Mako!" The two girls exchanged a loose hug. "Resupply?" she asked brightly.

Mako… I remembered the name after a moment: she'd been on Balmorra with Vette, and was part of the first wave into the Balmorran Arms factory.

She was skinny, a small cybernetic implant glittering around one eye like a fashion statement rather than a functional article. Dark hair and a dusky complexion, she had a similar sense to Vette, that of comfort in her surroundings and in her ability to deal with whatever came up. "Pretty much—Amala's about to finish using everything in the galley again… she's kinda under some pressure and it's getting to her," Mako said uneasily.

"Seriously? Because she looked like she could handle herself," Vette frowned.

"It's one of those things, you know?" Mako answered with an expressive shrug. "You trade in your Sith?"

"Nah. Her Lordship's busy. So I'm walking her apprentice." Vette said this last but in an undertone, which Mako had to elan in to her and over which both girls giggled.

Har-dee-har-har. I'm so amused. With that, I moved to the nearest kiosk and began looking over things for sale.

"Mako, the list." The voice—masculine, a soft tenor, and completely neutral—stopped the girls' conversation. It belonged to a Mandalorian who had either just sidled up or had been there the whole time, quiet and observant. He looked a bit on the light side for a Mandalorian, but still tall. His white and teal armor showed signs of frequent heavy-duty use.

Whether he broke in now to get on with the shopping or to let me know Mako had a respectable kind of backup, it was hard to tell. When I poked at him, gently and without using my special power, I found a hazy kind of fuzz which would probably keep all passive and even some concerted intrusions out. He'd probably be immune to mind tricks. Mandalorians are said to be, as a general thing.

"Oh! Right…" Mako handed over a datapad Vette's appearance had caused her to cease attending and handed it over to the Mandalorian. "Thanks." She regarded him with a bright interest that made me wonder what he looked like under the helmet.

He nodded once before walking over to the nearest kiosk which was conspicuously close to my right arm, as if he thought he could grab me if the situation warranted. He didn't give any overt sign that he had this in mind, simply propping the datapad on the surface and briskly pulling up items to either place bids or make outright purchases. The lights glared across his helmet and visor every time he moved his head… and I had the feeling he kept one eye on me, just in case but without any real expectation of trouble. As if he was just in the habit of keeping an eye on dangerous people close to his crewmates.

"—that really sucks," Vette said, her tone full of sympathy.

"What's really gonna suck is the guy's day when she stops feeling shell-shocked and catches up with him. I'm just waiting for her to get past shock and get mad." Mako assured her. "No fancy Force tricks are gonna save him. _Count_ on it." Her pretty face twisted into a grim, ugly look, as if she'd like to get in on the action. The look she gave the Mandalorian suggested it was more probably that _he_ and Amala would be running the object of ire's day.

"Hey, Jaesa," Vette called.

"What?" I peered around the kiosk.

Vette sidled up to me, bringing Mako with her. "Know anything about a guy named Jun Seros?"

I snorted. "It doesn't ring any bells. Why?"

"'Cuz he's being an asshole and causing my friend's friend some problems," Vette answered. "Thought you might have heard something."

It was a nice way _not_ to tell the whole galaxy I used to be a Jedi. "No, nothing."

"Eh, worth a shot," Vette shrugged before returning to her conversation which lasted until I was done placing orders.

After five minutes of continued chatter, in which I wasn't included, I sighed. "Vette. I'm going to find the nearest cantina. Find me when you're done."

"—will do. Better look out for any foreign food," she warned earnestly.

I nodded to this, then started off, finding the nearest bright-looking cantina that looked like it was doing a brisk business. I didn't mind waiting—Vette can talk the hind leg off a nerf when she gets going—and the livelier a place is the more likely I am to enjoy it.

The place I picked specialized in Corellian food—nice and greasy. There weren't so few Sith aboard the station that anyone felt especial need to stay out of my way, but flutters of unease and interest popped here and there. Apparently the rules of conduct for non-Sensitives around Sith were a little looser when not on Dromund Kaas—that is to say, the stance was not to provoke said Sith while expecting said Sith to mind his or her manners unless he or she was provoked.

I placed my order, received it, and moved to sit in a corner with my back to the wall and my face to the entryway—so I couldn't be sneaked up on and so I would see Vette if she walked past without seeing me. I didn't miss that sitting with one's back to a wall or corner was common practice among Sith. None of the ones in the cantina put their backs to any open space if they had to sit down unless they didn't have a choice.

I was about halfway through my lunch—and regretting the greasiness of it—when I noticed a tableful of Imperial soldiers, not one of them an officer, having taken notice of me. When they realized they had my attention, most looked away as if unsure whether it was wise to be caught ogling a Sith.

One of them didn't; in fact, he gave me a hesitant little wave, barely a wiggle of fingers and a shy half-smile.

Well… it beats eating alone, doesn't it?

So I beckoned him to come over. A Sith shouldn't be shy, after all.

 **On Excesses**

I looked up when Her Lordship's footsteps stopped. "You look like you had an interesting evening," she noted.

Yeah. My first time with a man—boy—and my first hangover. The latter kind of ruined memory of the former, being something in the here and now. Ugh.

I cracked a bleary eye just as she mercilessly turned the lights up to full brightness. I knew she was smirking as she did it, even if I didn't actually _see_ her do it.

I groaned, then pushed myself to standing, eyes now watering from the lights. "…yeah, sure…" I looked at my glass of ice water which was now just water and, judging by the pain in my midriff, I'd fallen asleep at the table. Then, when I found her eyeing me curiously. "Do you remember the trip to the Fleet? Because I don't. I think I partied a little too hard."

"Oh really?"

"Oh yeah… I vaguely recall an Imperial soldier…" I sipped my drink. He was the one I picked up at the cantina. "I think he and I… got to know each other? Either that or I might have I killed him—or both maybe, it's fuzzy." I buried my face in my arms again.

Too… bright…

"I see you're reveling in your new emotions."

I looked up again. "Well, the way I see it I work hard so I might as well play hard—" I stopped, realizing there had been outright disapproval in her remark. Looking at her, I found her regarding me with a mix of disapproval and resignation—as if she knew she'd given me license to do as I liked provided it didn't interfere with work but was regretting not imposing a few restrictions.

"…m-my lord?"

"Who was he, this soldier you got to know?" she asked simply, sitting down at the table and continuing to frown at me.

"…Trace…" Or was it Jace? Dace? Billings? "…I think…" I answered uneasily.

"Given name or surname?"

"…I… don't know." Unease became the faintest blush on my cheeks.

"But you _do_ know if he was directly attached to a particular Sith, do you not?"

 _That_ I understood, and a shiver ran through me; in a fair world, the chill that followed would have killed my hangover. If he was… that Sith might take offense to Her Lordship's apprentice abusing his or her personnel. I tried to remember. An Imperial in service to a Sith wears black tabs on the shoulder of his working uniform—immediately visible, coming or going. The tabs will also have a red teardrop if the soldier is in direct service to a lord among Sith; a gold teardrop if in the direct service of a Darth; or in the case of an Imperial in direct service to a member of the Dark Council, he'll have a black band on his right arm with the insignia of his master's Sphere on it, and an officer would wear the black braid looping one shoulder even on his working uniform, whereas all other officers would only wear the braid on his dress uniform.

I couldn't remember his shoulder tabs. He'd ended up turning shy—which kind of made for two of us—which I found alluring, so I wasn't paying much attention to his uniform. Particularly once I got it off him.

"…I don't think so…" By now, under her cool gaze, I felt like I wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out.

…I'm _pretty_ sure I didn't _actually_ kill him…

"I see."

"But, master… I'm not really interested in nameless, faceless, possibly lifeless grunts…" Her expression didn't change, the unwavering orange-eyed attention, leaving me with a growing sense of panic which I tried desperately to keep to myself. "…I'm sure true sustenance will come from more… substantive experiences."

But she was _so_ disappointed. I didn't need to be Force sensitive to know it.

"Well, I didn't impose restrictions on you," she mused as though regretting not having done so, for my sake at the very least. "So I suppose I shall have to see whether any other Sith is offended. It is, of course, a sense of offense I shall have to deal with."

She didn't sound angry, but the words pierced like knives. I bit the inside of my lip at the gross sense of disappointment all over her face and in the air around her.

"It's my fault, after all." This more to herself than to me, but hearing her say it made it worse.

"I'll be more careful in future, master," I offered, almost pleadingly.

"Thank you, Jaesa." Her Lordship frowned at the table. When she looked back up at me she'd managed to sweep most of the disappointment off her face. "Two things, and then we'll say no more about it. An apprentice reflects well or ill on her master." My eyes began to sting; it's not the first time she's said it and I grew up knowing it, more or less. "And _always_ know who it is you're killing." Her tone had a vicious quality to it; this, too, is something she's told me before—so, although she didn't say it, _I knew better_ but chose to act like a fool.

I bowed my head, hiding behind my hair so she wouldn't see the tears welling up in my eyes. "Yes, master. I understand," I managed around the lump in my throat.

"Then we'll say no more about it."

I knew she wouldn't, nor would she give me those disappointed looks every time she saw me… but I'd remember the one she'd worn this morning. And I'd remember the lessons that came from them.

And I'd remember that, whatever my error, she still hadn't placed restrictions on me. Hadn't impinged my freedom, even after screwing up and possibly making trouble for her. Had given me another chance to prove she didn't _need_ to regulate my life.

I absolutely loathed myself by this point, and was glad to slink out of her presence.


	20. Chapter 20

**On Nar Shaddaa**

"It's worse every time we come here," the Captain noted dryly, casting about as if hoping beyond hope that his statement would be, even if only in some small measure, contradicted by _something_.

"Indeed." Her Lordship gestured to something, and I looked for what caught her attention.

Standing at a vendor obviously haggling was a Jedi, a slight Mirialan who looked so fragile a puff of wind might blow her away. Nevertheless, she made ripples in the Force, giving off a sort of easy calm like duracrete lets go of heat during the day. Unlike so many masters, the Force didn't feel _flat_. It kind of lapped around her like water around a stone. I remembered her: Lethe, the quieter and smarter of a pair of twins. A quick glance revealed that Rhiabe, loud and practical with a slight attitude problem Tython hadn't hammered out of her, was nowhere to be seen.

Standing on her right was a girl of similar slight build, so pale she seemed to glow. From the way she shivered and bounced on the spot, it was clear she'd never been to Nar Shaddaa either and was even more eager for the experience as I was.

The interesting feature was on Lethe's left, and prompted the Captain's pop of surprise and—dare I say it?—confusion.

A tall, lean Pureblood stood peering over Lethe's shoulder, hands folded behind his back, long brown robes hanging about him*.

"But… he's one of us, isn't he?" I asked, frowning. The idea of a Pureblood accompanying a Jedi—and it was obvious from the way the he and the girl stood near her that Lethe was in charge—offended my senses. As a Pureblood, the man was most likely even more privileged than Her Lordship. And he left the Sith order for the _Jedi_? What kind of sense is that?

"Not anymore he's not," Her Lordship answered dryly, but not without curiosity of her own. "You don't see many of his kind cross over. Why should they?"

The Force tugged about him, like wind tugging at a banner. Abruptly, and unseen by Lethe or the girl, his head cocked as if he heard something. He didn't turn around, merely moved to stand behind and between the two women, obviously in a guarding position but without alerting them to the fact. He wasn't nearly bulky enough to screen them both, but could respond quickly to any attack, should attack come.

 _That_ was a Sith trait and no mistake—being ready to respond to attack, not shielding someone else.

Only once he had them partially screened did he turn his head, just far enough to catch us in his peripheral vision. Discreetly he waved one hand as though to say ' _move along_ ' while the other inched towards his lightsaber. It was an unconscious gesture, that of someone who knew the value of rapid response, to whom such things were second nature.

I felt disgusted.

"Jaesa?"

I looked up to find Her Lordship and the Captain had already begun to move on, and that the Pureblood with the Jedi had gone back to paying attention to the haggling. "I knew her…" I answered with a shrug. "Her twin has a big mouth. They were… a little unorthodox."

And kind. We weren't _friends_ , but they were nine or ten when they came to the Jedi, and knew what it was to 'come late to the training.' They were both good for a little sympathy, after their own fashions. It was weird to find myself on one side of the lines of opposition to them. I wasn't entirely sure how useful I'd be in a fight if Her Lordship and Lethe's objectives ended up at odds.

"I wonder that the Jedi let him off on his own to babysit," the Captain mused.

"Don't judge Lethe like that," I put in, still rolling around this conundrum of loyalties and… the amicability I entertained previously. "She's young and she doesn't look like much, but she's _very_ strong. He's not babysitting her: she's escorting him." Because, of course, most people would judge by his kind rather than by his robes when assessing him.

"This is Nar Shaddaa," Her Lordship shrugged. "And we have an objective."

I still found a Pureblood in Jedi robes offensive. I mean, who'd _want_ to go over to them? They're so boring, stymying. But if he's there, he's either been utterly brainwashed or left the Sith on purpose. I wanted to ask why, but that's not the sort of thing you walk up to someone out of the blue and ask: 'hey, you're top of the dog pile, why'd you go and leave it?'

Even more unpalatable, I'd have to get into my life decisions with Lethe and she's _very_ diplomatic. You don't get into ideological discussions with her; she can argue with a brick wall and win.

I snorted, tried to clear my mind of the indignation.

I'd been to Nar Shaddaa before. It frightened me the last time I was here and I spent so much of the trip hunkered behind Nomen Karr's shoulder hoping not to be noticed. This time though, I felt a thrill of anticipation at experiencing the place now that I was more comfortable in my own skin. Not even Her Lordship's half-joking warning of 'don't start a war' before we disembarked dampened my spirits. It couldn't have been clearer that she didn't think she _needed_ to tell me but she did it just in case provocation occurred.

Apparently Karr and Baras agreed on one thing: Nar Shaddaa is the armpit of the galaxy. The Captain apparently agreed with those two old goats.

The very nastiness of it is why it's interesting.

The place smelled rank—Hutt emanations, no doubt—which seemed to set the stage, a sharp contrast with the bright lights and the sounds of enthusiastic hawkers or sultry ads over the loudspeakers. Unlike the Vaiken Spacedock in the Imperial Fleet, Nar Shaddaa had no perceptible sense of orderliness: everything was everywhere. Lights in every eye-searing color blinked, flashed, and raced around frames, the motion drawing the eye—or would have, had there been fewer such distractions. Loud speakers in multiple languages never shut up, advertising everything from restaurants to red light district attractions.

With my increasing awareness of the unseen, I could feel the way the energy moved, the shuddering nature of it, like sand being jiggled in a sieve. I'd known Nar Shaddaa was a desperate place, but now I perceived it as a kind of metallic tang, a thing that hung barely within perception. It was too big a thing to bring into focus, but that seemed about right. It wouldn't make sense if I could just stand here and perceive little motes of dust in a cloud of falling dust. But I was aware of them, nonetheless.

The denizens of Nar Shaddaa gave Jedi a little space when a Jedi happened to pass by. They actually _shrank away_ from Sith… or maybe just Her Lordship. She had her very best game face on today, the one that said 'I own this moon, I own _you_ —interfere at your own peril.' I'd never met anyone who could pull that off without seeming like a child grabbing at toys, or coming off as an overblown cartoon figure.

Vette was excited as well. She liked Nar Shaddaa—possibly because she had the name of an up-and-coming Sith to drop if she got in over her head. Her Lordship had turned the Twi'lek loose with a list of purchases to make… and probably a few credits to play with.

Apparently, Sith apprentices are—unless they have or create resources of their own—dependent on their masters. Until her promotion, Baras had supplied the ship, paid for repairs or the like, kept it fueled. Now that Her Lordship had been promoted, he continued doing this but she was paid an actual stipend.

So for those of us who, unlike the Captain, didn't draw a paycheck, Her Lordship made generous arrangements: she ensured Vette had pocket money and I had a proper bi-monthly allowance which she cautioned me to use wisely.

I took this to mean upkeep or replacement of weapons and armor first. Fortunately, there was nothing wrong with my armor since it was new and she had checked my lightsaber's inner workings herself, and I'd been doing so once a week or before I went somewhere I might need it. By this point, I felt quite comfortable with the weapon, whether in my hand, or eviscerated on a workspace for maintenance.

I shook myself, then glanced at Her Lordship and the Captain up ahead. Despite having disappointed Her Lordship as I had, she'd kept to her promise and neither said nor hinted anything about my indiscretion. As far as I could tell, nothing had come of it and she had not refrained from taking me along everywhere with her.

…part of me wondered if it was so she could keep an eye on me herself, but most of me was sure it was just business as usual and anything I saw to the contrary was resultant of a guilty conscience.

The Captain marched along at Her Lordship's shoulder, every bit the good Imperial aide and she gave every appearance of ignoring his presence… yet I had the impression that it was a show, just like the one Vette puts on.

Vette is a slave on paper and to the galaxy at large. In reality however, Vette has very few limitations placed upon her. The point is that anyone is going to think twice about crossing a slave who says she serves a Sith whereas they might not if she doesn't. The social status quo can be a protection.

With the Captain, in public, what else could he be except the dutiful Imperial stooge—though I doubt anyone would actually use the word 'stooge' to describe him. Imperials exist—so the story goes—to serve the Sith and the Empire. But I've noticed that the Captain isn't quite as cowed and subservient as many Imperials; nor is he oily, unctuous and affectedly servile; it's more like he treats Her Lordship as a superior officer—in both contexts of the phrase.

I nodded to myself at this, admiring the gaping holes in perception these two cases afforded the casual observer.

No one would question Vette's business—personal or not.

No one would think the Captain was anything more than an aide—certainly not an advisor or companion.

So where does that leave me? I'm a Sith apprentice to a particularly formidable Lord of the Sith.

Many Sith wear masks or breathers to hide their faces, elaborate robes and armor to hide twisted, wasted and/or disfigured bodies. Her Lordship wears a mask, but a mask of nothing more or less than her own expression: she doesn't need metal or porcelain or whatever it is. She smiles, she leers, she steamrolls opponents with an emphasis on the physical aspect of battle.

In reality, she makes _everything_ she does look easy for the benefit of anyone watching her, no matter how much work is involved, no matter how insignificant the individual who might see her. In reality, she's every bit as subtle as her master; she simply hides it behind the fiction that she's just an enforcer, a battering ram Baras employs when he needs to send a message. Perhaps this impression is heightened by the fact that Baras is cunning and subtle enough for two people anyway, why would he need a subtle agent as an enforcer?

I know her though, and know she transcends the fiction she maintains for onlookers. Anyone who works closely with her knows it.

I considered my own 'mask.' I won't wear one of those heavy things; I can comfortably say I'm pretty enough to not want to hide it. But a mask of flesh would work and I'm in a position to paint it how I like.

I had to stop there, because our guide fell back and indicated we were almost where we needed to be. He had to part ways with us, but even we couldn't get lost.

We were in a dingy segment of town, well away from the glamor of the Promenade, a discreet out-of-the-way place that was neither in a good part of town nor in a bad one. It was just absolutely average in every respect—the kind of place no one would expect an important meeting to happen. It lacked ambience, which was probably why no one (barring us) would think to look here.

Again, expectation afforded blind spots the one at whom expectation was directed could exploit.

So what can _I_ exploit?

"Jaesa. If there's a back door, find it. Let me know when you do."

I inclined my head, then slipped away, making myself as unobtrusive and unnoticeable as possible, stealthy and silent, virtually invisible to normal eyes. There was a back door, and I took a moment to center myself, to push the impression of _back door located_ across our bond.

True words are rare across such a bond, but what most people don't understand is that words aren't _needed_. A picture's worth a thousand words which is why images and impressions pass easily. They're less bulky, clunky, more expressive.

 _Go in quietly._ Again, not words, but the distinct impression. Impressions of this nature had grown sharper, more concrete, since I'd begun practicing my mind to perceive beyond my five senses.

I steadied myself. This wasn't like Alderaan. This was an actual mission for her actual master and if she botched it he'd be angry. And if _I_ botched it, she'd be blamed (and he'd still be angry). I took a deep breath and wrenched the lock open, slipping into the brightly lit… was it a house? Safehouse? Just some random location with the residents strategically drawn away?

The low sounds of conversation guided me through the small space until I stood behind a closed door, pressed close to it.

Listening.

"General Gonn, I'm happy to report that Jedi Knight Xerender has landed safely on Hoth. I saw to it personally."

"You're a valuable asset to the Republic, Fawste. Someday the rest of the Chiss will follow your lead."

A thrill of feeling in the loop wriggled up my spine. I actually knew what he meant when he said 'Chiss,' despite the fact that I'd never had dealings with one. With the Jedi, I knew who a species was based on how much contact I had with them. So if I'd never met a Rattataki I wouldn't have known what one looked like let alone anything about their society.

Her Lordship's training covers a _lot_ of topics; who's who in the galaxy is one of them.

The fact that the Chiss are an Imperial _ally_ rather than an actual part of the Empire makes them well worth noting. The Chiss are a race of… well, I'd say they were human, but in the way that Rattataki are: they look human in most respects, but with odd colorations and traits. In the case of the Chiss, they're blue with solid-red eyes—no whites at all, nor visible pupils either. They're known, among other things, for being comfortable in temperatures most would consider 'too low'—which made 'Chiss' and 'Hoth' in the same sentence hardly remarkable.

What _was_ interesting was why anyone would want to go there. Hoth is the galaxy's icebox, after all.

Ideas without words floated from Her Lordship: _Stay put. Watch the door. If they run…_ _deal_ _with them._

I nodded to myself, stepping as far back from the door as I could without losing too much of the conversation inside. If I was to make sure no one slipped out, then that was what I'd do.

A loud crunching sound indicated Her Lordship had slammed, booted, or blasted the door open. Across the commotion, her low, satisfied tones cut. "Good work leading me to the general, Fawste."

"Men, we've got trouble!" a female voice called. More scrambling, scrabbling, people coming to readiness. The auras in the room jittered and prickled.

Even as she spoke, the voice of General Gonn was audible, "What's this Fawste? Have you double crossed me?" He sounded so hurt I almost giggled.

"No! It's… it isn't… I'm not—"

"Give it up, Fawste. The General's no dope."

"I swear to you, General, it's a lie!" What a nasty, sniveling little creature. Pathetic.

"I believe you, Fawste. Sith are notorious liars. Don't worry—our bond is not broken."

Oooh, aren't we all noble-sounding? I'll bet that 'nobility' flakes right off when it gets in the way of something he wants or wants done.

"I think I can guess who you are, Sith," General Gonn sneered oh-so-serenely. "For all Baras' covert manipulations you've banged around the galaxy rather loudly. Well, Baras has finally found me. I shall have to be more careful in moving forward." The threat in his tone surprised me… but it shouldn't have. He didn't sound nearly so noble now; just like he was about to swat and crush a bothersome mosquito.

Good luck with that.

"Cease your operations and I'll let you continue breathing," Her Lordship said in that crushing tone, the one that squeezes at the bowels and plays havoc on the weak or less than fully committed. It's not a mind trick: she simply has a crushing personality and knows how to use it.

In this case, I suspected the statement wasn't meant for the General but for his little stooges. Or the traitors. She'd keep her word. They'd live. Whether they lived once her master gets through with them is another matter entirely. She loves playing technicalities.

"Keeping the Fringe Systems free of the Empire is more important than my life," General Gonn snapped at her.

I giggled silently to myself when the traitor, Fawste, spoke up. His voice trembled and shook, fear evident. He'd been caught red-handed by one of the last people in the galaxy he'd want to be caught by. "S-Sith… you are D-Darth _Baras'_ apprentice?" She must have nodded, for when he continued his voice was even more agitated. "We-we know of you…"

"How flattering."

"This-this isn't want it looks like," Fawste insisted… like an animal preparing to chew off its own leg to escape a trap.

"Oh really?"

"Indeed," General Gonn growled. "What _is_ it then, Fawste?"

"Uh… we-we… we cooperated with General Gonn in order to learn what, uh, what he was up to so that at the… the proper moment we could betray him." The pause suggested he looked to her, like a mutt wondering if he'd got something right.

I take it back. He's not a pathetic, nasty, sniveling little creature. He's a wretched sniveling little coward and _utterly_ pathetic. I've scraped gunk off my boot of a higher quality than this man.

"Ah, I see." I could hear Her Lordship's smile—the one that says she's not amused or impressed.

A pat on the head for a cowed dog. I'll bet he even brightened a little.

"Nicely played, Fawste. You're a true lowlife. When this is over, so is our—" General Gonn growled.

The sounds of a fight broke out before the General finished speaking. I stepped back from the door, hand raised, the Force twisting and twining around my fingers, ready to be neatly tugged into expression to push back anyone who tried to get through.

The door abruptly hissed open. I had a split second to regard the room beyond, pick a target and…

The man trying to escape shrieked like a little girl when he suddenly flew back, knocking over the two people behind him and slamming bodily into a third soldier hunkered behind a table at whom no one seemed to have a clear line of attack.

The bodies collapsed in a heap, groaning and trying to disentangle themselves.

In addition to the man I'd thrown and the trooper he slammed into were two men, not Chiss but obviously lowlifes who smelled an easy way to… whatever, who were knocked over by the first; there was a fourth in a corner, looking horrified, whom I pegged as Fawste. Those downed scrambled to their feet backing away as I grinned, igniting my lightsaber. Their fear colored the air which made my grin widen into a true leer. They continued backing away as I advanced into the doorway… then twitched a hand and flung them into the pile of Chiss and Republic trooper who had finally disentangled themselves.

I giggled. I couldn't help it. They looked like some kind of many-limbed sea creature, the trooper on the bottom gasping painfully as if something had broken or ruptured. Adrenaline thrummed in my veins; I could actually _feel_ the superiority I represented in this moment like a tingle in my skin.

The Captain stood near the other door, pistol raised, eyes scanning the room. Several Republic troopers lay dead, obviously his handiwork, with another few decapitated. Her Lordship had neatly severed General Gonn at the neck by the time I finished taking full stock of the room.

Jedi, as a rule, don't like decapitations.

Sith, as a rule, respect the practicality. Even a member of the Dark Council would have trouble dealing with something like that. Decapitating an enemy is like life insurance: they can't come after you all pissed off at a later date… unless they can scrape together enough will to become a Force apparition thing. I've heard that can happen.

Fawste in the corner looked like he was about to pass out. Or wet himself. Or both.

"I-I-I—" he stammered, shaking from head to toe. "I-we will rededicate ourselves to the Empire! Mercy, lord…" the little womp rat actually fell to his knees, hands raised as if to protect his face _and_ offer supplication in one gesture. It… didn't really work. Nor would it have _had_ it been an effective gesture.

"You smuggled something to Hoth for the General," Her Lordship cut across his whimpering stammers, pointing her lightsaber at him, the tip an inch from his chin. "What was it?"

Not for the first time I admired the gesture; it was theatrical, but somehow wholly appropriate, not at all amusing or overstated.

"I-I helped a Jedi land on Hoth, undetected," Fawste practically vomited up the answer, he was so quick to supply it. "I believe he's searching for… something in the starship graveyard. That's all I know!"

"You will be explaining this to my master," Her Lordship declared. "In fact, I shall see you are conveyed to my master myself. Captain, I believe there's a safe place on our ship to keep these… valuable assets?"

I grinned at the implication. She's going to stick them in a chipping container or something.

"There are several Imperial outposts on Nar Shaddaa, my lord. I believe any one of them would be more than delighted to render aid to you and to Darth Baras," the Captain answered smoothly.

Her Lordship debated, then nodded. "I leave it in your hands, Captain. Jaesa, I must compliment you: I'd have loved to stop and watch that pile grow."

I beamed at her. Then, testing the sound of the words, "I can pick them up and do it again, Master. If you'd like. It wouldn't be hard…" I flexed a hand, watched eyes follow the delicate motion.

Curiosity edged in the kind of interest one feels when a riddle is about to be answered rippled from Her Lordship.

The only idea in my head was an image of me with a mask caricaturing something crazy and evil… but cold and cunning beneath. Just like she was teaching me to be. But it was easier to believe a crazy apprentice finally off her Jedi leash than anything else. Expectation causes blind spots.

Her Lordship snickered softly, then shrugged as though to say 'whatever works.'

I'll find something, I'm sure.

 **Sith Apprentice**

"Jaesa, I'm going to give you a task tonight. I'm afraid your post-victory celebrations must be set aside," Her Lordship announced as we sat in the mess hall of the Imperial Garrison. We weren't there to eat, just to speak quietly and out of the Captain's earshot.

"What would you have of me, Master?" I asked, most of my attention on her, but a sliver of it attended the little grey men moving in and out of the mess.

All of them, as they came in, betrayed a little surprise—a jerk, a twitch, a tensing of muscles—as they made note of the Sith sitting in the corner. The volume of conversations in the room had changed—half grew softer as if trying to avoid notice and half grew louder as if to say 'we couldn't possibly hear whatever you're discussing! And what's more, we don't want to!'

I couldn't decide if this was because they didn't see enough Sith or if they saw too many… or if they saw too many and previously felt the mess was a safely Sith-free zone.

"I need you to… check up on something for me and it's something I would rather Quinn not get wind of—for his own sake. Call it homework, if you like."

"Of course, my lord. You can count on my discretion."

"If I didn't believe that, Jaesa, I wouldn't be entrusting you with something so secret and so important. Now, here's what I have in mind for you—"

My eyes grew wide as she explained exactly what she wanted… which evidenced the degree to which she trusted me. If a little shopping out from under her watchful eye on Vaiken was 'responsibility' I didn't know what to call this!

 **On Secret Things**

It was with no small amount of pride that I entered that dingy Nar Shaddaa cantina, eyes scanning the room in its entirety. Her Lordship and the Captain had gone out, having completed Baras' commission.

I also went out. Everyone knew I'd voiced an interest exploring new places and meeting new people (so to speak) so my absence was not surprising. Nor would it be surprising if I came back late or very early the next morning.

This time though, I was on Her Lordship's orders rather than seeking some form of gratification. Even if my habits weren't known, no one could hold the Captain's attention the way Her Lordship did. He was and would remain thoroughly and utterly distracted. As long as my activities weren't seen to deviate from 'normal' I didn't matter in the slightest.

No offense, as I'm sure he would hastily add.

I wasn't offended. He belonged—in so many senses of the word—to Her Lordship.

No, I was on a somewhat different business, and thoroughly excited about it—though I hid that. I knew Her Lordship was pleased at how quickly I absorbed her various influences, but to be trusted with carrying out services for her, to serve as her proxy, trusted with _secret things_ …

Oh! It was the _best_ feeling, surpassing even that of being in the loop when political matters came up, or understanding Her Lordship's motivations without having them explained to me and seeing her pleased expression when I presented her a correct answer when my understanding was questioned… or that feeling of superiority once my (which included Her Lordship's) enemies were on the ground and either dead or helpless.

Her Lordship described Lord Rathari in detail, his most notable features being his missing ear—which, apparently, she had carved off and sent to Baras as proof that the man was dead—and some cybernetics. The Captain also believed Rathari dead, which was why Baras believed it: when the Captain made his report about it Baras would have sensed no lie or concealment.

Her Lordship however, had fooled the good Captain and gained a valuable resource.

Well, it was up to me to determine whether he was valuable or not, whether it seemed as though he had been devoting himself to building up, in the shadows, support for Her Lordship. I also meant to screen his loyalties, to reach out with my gift to make sure he was not being… unwise. Her Lordship may not be so inundated by foes and fools that she can't do her own killing, but she has more than enough on her plate for me to want to ease her burden in any way I can.

I found him sitting unobtrusively at a table in the back corner of the cantina, looking as though he belonged there and not like someone waiting for someone else.

He was a big man, pale like most Sith, his hood drawn up to hide his missing ear and to mask the cybernetic implant that ran from cheekbone to jaw. By the time I took a really good look at him, he'd already taken notice of me. It was only when I started walking towards him that that interested notice diffused into wariness.

I settled across from Rathari, disliking having my back to the room. For a few moments, we regarded one another, sizing one another up each as he (or she) was best able. Which meant I bent my gift upon him without shame

 _He hated Baras. It was an absolute, all-consuming kind of hate, the sort of thing that springs from an old festering wound. I didn't look to see what Baras had done, all I knew was that whatever would end with Baras' head and shoulders parting company would have Rathari's unswerving devotion; his ambitions were no greater than the utter destruction of Darth Baras—rage and a deep-seated thirst for revenge left him remarkably short-sighted._

 _He was not fond of Her Lordship at all, but he respected her strength and did not mistake her leniency in leaving him his life for weakness. Rather, he thought her shrewd and capable, able to destroy his enemy. It wasn't as good as doing it himself, but his grudge was so deep that he didn't care who took the killing blow. He was no immediate threat and, most likely, was smart enough to remain not a threat to her at all once his revenge was achieved._

He was better off as her servant than a corpse, and she was more than capable of making a corpse of him with or without my help. Still, she has enough to manage.

"Welcome to Nar Shaddaa, young Sith," Rathari rasped. His voice had a rough, sandpapery quality to it, as if he'd been combining strong alcohol and heavy smoking for too many years. I imagine the feel of the calluses on a workman's hands would be that way if translated into a sound.

"Thank you," I answered simply.

"I believe our lord will be pleased with my progress."

It was an opening, an avenue into something else. But he called her 'our lord' which was good enough for me. Not 'your master' nothing to suggest she was an authority to me but not to him. The attention to such a small detail in wording surprised me; at one time I wouldn't have noticed. "I am eager to see what you have accomplished, and I shall report it accurately to her—good or bad—just as I observe it."

"This way, then." Rathari got up, then motioned me to walk a little ahead of him. He absolutely towered over me, would have made Her Lordship look smaller than average size. His muscular bulk suggested he was of Her Lordship's school of thought: prowess in physical combat trumped prowess in combat relying solely on the Force.

We didn't speak any further until we entered a transit vehicle. At that point, he began to report in briskly. It sounded as though he really was working hard, devoting himself to Her Lordship's interests, spreading out fingers beyond Nar Shaddaa as best he could. His network was sizable in itself, and apparently he was capable of managing his own resources without tipping his hand that he wasn't as dead as everyone believed.

Then again, Nar Shaddaa was so big and noisy and bustling… it must take real effort to find anyone or anything here, if that anyone or anything was hidden or wished to remain so.

Rathari took us to a dark, dank, dangerous sector of Nar Shaddaa's lower levels—the kind of place where a 'weak' Sith could carve out a small empire if he wanted to, as long as he maintained some discretion—which was the cover under which Rathari hid. "It's this way," he rasped as he led us into a particularly dilapidated building. The first room was dingy, the reek of the lower reaches thick and eye-watering.

However, the first room was simply somewhere for 'visitors' to get the wrong idea. Beyond it was the rest of the complex, which was of a higher standard—as one might expect from a Sith playing king.

"How are Her Lordship's efforts to destabilize Baras?" Rathari demanded, not curtly but in a way that suggested he would mulishly stick to the topic until I gave him a proper answer.

"That depends entirely on your efforts," I answered with a sweet smile.

Rathari's eyes flicked over me, as if he was trying to read the subtext in my words accurately. He snorted, his nostrils flaring. "At least tell me she hates the fat bastard."

"Say, rather, that she despises him," I allowed. In a way, he's not worth hating. Too much expenditure of energy.

"Close enough. May I offer you a drink?" he walked over to a cabinet near a large desk. The contents and disorder of the desk suggested it was his command center from which he managed his underground resources.

"Thank you."

I checked with my gift and found no suggestion of intent to poison me. He handed me a squat glass full of wine—I knew enough about etiquette to know it was too big a glass for what we were drinking. Still, I found I approved: Rathari came across as being frank in his speech and frank about what he liked and what he didn't like.

Once I had my glass, he pulled a datapad off the desk and handed it to me.

I activated it and began flicking through it one-handed, wetting my lips on the wine—a rich, full-bodied thing that would knock an inexperienced drinker on her backside with a third of the measure he'd poured me. It was an inventory, and quite comprehensive. I turned it off and slipped it into the pouch on my belt. "I shall see that she gets it."

With that, I turned to study the room at large, realizing as I did so that I felt… self-conscious.

"Is she here?" Rathari finally asked, as I poked about the desk.

"On business," I answered. "But I doubt she'll feel the need to manage your affairs for you." It was as close to 'don't worry' as I would give him.

Rathari was silent, apparently thinking deeply.

I continued to sip my wine, considering… except, maybe, I was considering something I probably shouldn't. Although quite pale and slightly discolored around the mouth, Rathari's eyes were still brown. It was hard to tell whether this was an effort on his part or not. Some Sith, apparently, put extra effort in concealing some of the worst ravages of the Dark Side—Her Lordship isn't one, but she's not 'ravaged' by it.

He did have lovely eyes though, and I'd never really entertained ideas about, shall we say, bigger men. Or fellow Force users. And he was Sith, harder to break than an Imperial. So… yes. He was interesting for several reasons.

I think what I really liked was the fact that he was _dangerous_. He could hurt me if he really wanted to—before I hurt him back or kill him, anyway. The idea was… intriguing.

But this is also a first meeting and picking up a Sith lord isn't like picking up an Imperial ground-pounder at a cantina. Also, he's Her Lordship's minion; I would hate to waste a resource because he was foolish enough to try to use me against her. I might not be able to restrain my rage and refrain from lopping his duplicitous head off.

"If you're finished with your inspection," Rathari announced, looking grim, "I would appreciate it if you took your report to our master. Some of us have work and a great deal of it."

I smirked at him. "Surely you wouldn't run me off before I've finished my wine? I'm sure you can eke out a few minutes to sit and chat with me while I do so. I promise—I'm much better company than whatever all that is," I indicated the contents of his desk as I levered myself to sit on the nearest surface.

Rathari considered me thoughtfully, then moved to lean against his desk, arms crossed. "And what would my lord care to discuss?" he asked innocently, but the sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"You can tell me how you came to be in Her Lordship's service."

"Surely you already know."

"She's not the type to elaborate on such matters. She merely told me how to identify you and that she traded your life for your service."

He looked truly surprised by this discretion, then thoughtful as he studied me, a spark of interest flickering in the air. As well it might; as far as he's concerned I just sort of popped out of the ground at Her Lordship's side. "I could very well tell you that, since our lord is so discreet, I have nothing to say. However—" He reached over and topped off his wine before pointedly looking at mine and setting the vessel down as though suggesting I was a lightweight. "—I'll share mine if you share yours. I wasn't aware she'd taken an apprentice."

I sniffed at this, but didn't conceal the smile that twisted my face. He was being awfully accommodating with regards to my curiosity. "The last time I heard an offer like that, I was eight years old."

"I promise, I'm better company than whoever that was," he returned, inflecting his statement to match the one I'd given him earlier.

"So I see."

-J-

Author's Note: Although the Empire's storylines supersede those of the Republic classes for the purposes of this story, the Republic class player-characters still exist and have some amounts of success. In this case, the Consular's story is mildly AU in that Praven joins the crew after being convinced to leave the Sith order by the Consular's Jedi Knight twin. Not that this matters much for story purposes, but just in case there were any questions. More than that, I wanted Jaesa to really consider a new aspect of her changed position.


	21. Chapter 21

Author's note: For the duration of Rathari's story it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Rathari's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

 **Nar Shaddaa, Part I**

I frowned at the report which confirmed the rumors slithering through Nar Shaddaa's gossip mill.

That bastard Baras—the festering hatred throbbed hard at the thought of him—had sent an enforcer out here with the express purpose of killing Dellocon. The man was perfectly aware of his former master's intentions and came to me for protection. Any insight into That Bastard's networks was useful. Already several agents had fallen, weakening That Bastard's nets.

A little. I didn't fool myself that I'd done more than scratch the surface. Dellocon was shrewd enough to buy his life day at a time, rather than serve up everything all at once. That way—so the logic went—I would never know how much truly useful information had yet to be conveyed. Dellocon was a little womp rat of a man, but he wasn't stupid.

Now, Girik on the other hand, proved himself _remarkably_ stupid in that he'd let That Bastard's enforcer kill him. I was as annoying as it was unpleasant. More than that, he'd done it in front of the Hutts he was supposed to be soliciting properties from. And, if I knew anything about Hutts, they'd probably bet on the death match… and Girik had the bad graces to get himself killed.

Lord Rathari's apprentice killed ignominiously by That Bastard's bagman. It did _not_ paint a reassuring picture and the Hutts would be quick to consider such a challenge.

I clenched my fists, shoving the rage aside. Better to think; in particular, better to think how to _flatten_ this unexpected nuisance.

Still… starting with Girik was a bold move.

"Dellocon. Baras' lackey has someone providing guidance." I looked up at him, studying the skinny man with his irritatingly nervous disposition. "I need a name."

Dellocon shifted, picking at his clothes as he squirmed. "The only one that comes to mind, my lord, would be Halidrell Setsyn—she manages Baras' slaving operations here. Not someone one would normally look at to be guiding an enforcer's sword arm, but with his list of agents here growing thin…"

It was a place to start. That was all I needed.

 **Nar Shaddaa, Part II**

I finally had a face for That Bastard's lackey, broadcast via holo before she killed the man with the holocom and crushed the holocom itself under her boot. Red-headed, accomplished swordswoman, brutally effective. She carved through General Kligton's men in minutes, hardly needing the suppressing fire from her Imperial aide.

His presence made little sense, unless he was yet another of That Bastard's plants set to watch his enforcer and ensure her good behavior. What That Bastard thought a single Imperial could do against a Sith like that, I had no idea, but perhaps That Bastard hadn't gotten past just keeping an eye on her.

 _Un_ fortunately for her, this enforcer was not possessed of the capability to be in two places at once. So while she'd been hammering on Kligton, I'd dropped in on this Halidrell Setsyn.

The woman had holed up with the last of her security detail, but the command center had finally given way.

"The command center's been breached!" the Setsyn woman shouted. She gasped as I stepped into the room, lightsaber humming softly, a gentle thrum of promise. For me, promise of a message sent. For Setsyn that Death had come for her. And for that nameless enforcer, that she finally had my attention—and was going to wish she'd avoided it.

The holocom fell out of Setsyn's flaccid fingers, her skin going pasty, eyes widening in horror.

The little device hit the ground in the suddenly silent room. A second later, the remaining four of Setsyn's men were dead. She braced herself against the wall, every inch the cornered animal.

I strode over to the holocom and smiled at the open channel.

That Bastard's enforcer cocked her head. From the way her expression smoothed out, she'd just written the Setsyn woman off as a loss. We regarded one another in silence; she was a powerfully built woman, someone who favored a direct approach. Her expression was one of bored unconcern. "So, we meet at last," I declared when it became obvious she was waiting for me to make the opening remark.

" _After a fashion_ ," she answered, her tone a low purr, but strangely impersonal.

"It's clear that Baras failed to inform you whom you'd be crossing. This should serve to educate you." I handed the holocom to one of my men and moved forward so Setsyn and I were both in capture. A single gesture with my free hand pulled Setsyn off the ground, her hands flying to her throat to try to release the invisible grip crushing her windpipe.

She gurgled and struggled like anyone who finds themself unable to breathe.

A sidelong glance revealed the enforcer didn't seem particularly interested. She merely watched. " _So you killed a Force-deaf woman. I'm afraid I fail to see your point._ _Anyone_ _can do that._ "

I pursed my lips, but refused to rise to her bait—her tone strongly suggested that if _this_ was the most powerful message I could send then I was scarcely worth the time she was taking to deal with me in her pursuit of Dellocon. "I suppose General Kligton would agree with you."

" _I was told the Dark Council appointed you. Either they were having an off day or you've been lying about it. I'm sure you can imagine which one I think it is._ "

It was harder not to take this particular bait… not the least because there was no hint of what she felt or thought on her face. "You want Dellocon. You want me—well, I won't be hard to find any longer."

" _I'm touched by your magnanimity_."

She was good, this Sith, and played the old game of softening up her opponent before meeting him in battle well. Fortunately, I'm somewhat beyond that.

"I'll be on this the rooftop of the satellite platform in Network Access," I input a spot familiar to me, one I like because there's something satisfying in Force-pushing someone off that high place and watching them plummet into the abyss until they hit the unseen ground below. "If you dare show, I'll grant you a duel to the death."

" _These are your last breathing moments, Rathari. Enjoy them._ " With that, she hung up.

I frowned at the holocom, wondering. Her snide tone, dripping with smug superiority, wasn't unique among Sith. What was odd was how calm and businesslike she was about it. Well, 'calm' being another word for 'able to think clearly.' I've seen people take out literal garbage with more passion.

A tickle of unease ran up and down my backbone as I turned to leave, waving my minions to fall in. I found myself wondering at my own plan to throw her to my elite guard, let them take care of the trash. It seemed to me that, apprentice or not, perhaps I ought to deal with her myself. There was something innate, the suspicion that she would not back down or slow down for anyone until she had me on the other end of a private fight—and some part of me wondered just how capable of forcing that outcome she really was.

…which was ridiculous. The guards were less for my safety than for use in advancing Sith interests.

The fact that That Bastard was willing to interfere with my work, despite my being appointed by the Dark Council, was telling. He was far too powerful if they would overlook his meddling.

Well, throw the corpse of his enforcer in front of them and ask 'what's this all about?' and perhaps the Council will see what a cancer That Bastard really is.

 **Nar Shaddaa, Part III**

She came with only one aide—the Imperial who'd been shadowing her—and an attitude suggesting she was not surprised to find herself out numbered and was not at all flattered by the number of people arrayed against her. In fact, she look she swept us showed something just short of disappointed contempt.

The Imperial was nervous but kept it contained. His mind was curiously rigid, occluded, would take some real attention to get anything out of.

She, on the other hand, seemed to ooze disdain, boredom, and a solid sense of surety—both physically and as ripples through the Force. She honestly thought— _believed—_ she could win… and that without too much trouble on her part.

That tickle of unease ran up my spine again. Her pale skin and orange eyes indicated she was no soft touch. However, the rage fueling her was a contained and directed thing—and right now, it was like a lightsaber being pointed at Dellocon.

I was simply in her way. It pricked at my pride and sense of dignity, to be relegated to the position of a door to be kicked in, a token defender she planned to walk over. The worst part was that I couldn't tell if her whole presentation of utter superiority was a bluff projected for the benefit of those before her or a threat she could back up. That I couldn't tell was in itself a telling thing.

"Lord Rathari, I presume," she announced smoothly. "At last, we come face-to-face."

"You showed," I declared. "You lack your master's caution. I applaud that." I glanced back at Dellocon, hemmed in by guards. "You wanted a word with this upstart? Have it, before I kill her."

Dellocon padded up to stand just behind my shoulder.

The enforcer cocked her head, regarding him with interest.

"Baras is insane and paranoid!" Dellocon grated out, fear sheeting off him.

Thank you, idiot, for that vote of confidence. As if I couldn't kill this would-be assassin.

"I was a faithful servant and my cover was intact!"

She said nothing, which hinted that this wasn't so and showed she had no intention of arguing the matter. It wasn't worth her breath.

Well, with _me_ he didn't need anonymity any longer so the point was moot.

"Did you expect me to accept be murdered for reassurance? Just wait for death?" Dellocon demanded.

"You will be murdered today because you failed to take adequate precautions to prevent it," the enforcer answered simply.

I found myself smirking, if only to hide my irritation. She made waves within the Force, it's true, but she was so clearly an up-front fighter, a battering ram, a blunt instrument. She was highly limited with regards to tactics… but surely she knew that. So she was either incredibly good or simply a fool.

That Bastard didn't suffer fools.

Her Imperial aide slipped, by inches, off to one side, giving her plenty of elbow room while remaining at the ready, resonating with intent. His presence was a perplexity. Why rely on this Imperial for backing? Surely That Bastard would have provided a better second than some non-Sensitive junior officer?

There was something wrong with this picture. I had to wonder if it was, perhaps, something wrong with my perception of this picture. The creep of uncertainty was insidious; any Sith of quality knows that defeating an opponent can be as easy as seeding doubt or uncertainty in his mind.

That damnable woman…

"In a hundred years, when I am legendary within the Sith, your and Baras' deaths at my hands will not even be a _footnote_." The snarl was more pronounced than I would have liked. From the way the corners of her mouth turned up, the way her lips parted in that slight smile, she knew she'd gotten at least one of her barbs under my skin.

Damn her.

Her eyes seemed to glow in their sockets, lively interest stirring out of the mire of bored nonchalance. "Come then, let us embrace death."

It was an old challenge, very traditional and entirely antiquated. Posturing. But for whose benefit? Dellocon was already close to being cowed. Uncertainly rippled through my ranks.

Damn it all! She's one woman with a blasted Imperial!

"Hn. I would never dream of dueling a mere _apprentice_ like yourself. You haven't earned the honor."

Her expression didn't harden, in fact she began to sneer as though I'd honestly disappointed her… and she wasn't happy about it. "Funny. I hadn't marked you as a coward. It appears I overestimated you."

I glared at her. "You cannot goad me into it, worm." Another degree of predatory glee added itself to that smile of hers.

Wretched woman.

"These are my elite guard," I declared, indicating them. "Trained to fight Sith."

"Sith below your stature, perhaps."

…there was something to that. No Sith will travel with an entourage that could kill him. That's just inviting an assassination attempt if one or more of them could be bought.

Clearly, it was something no one had ever really considered… except maybe her Imperial, who looked completely nonplussed.

I was committed. If I backed down and took over the challenge, it would send all the wrong messages. And, yet, I felt certain that throwing these men in front of her would simply slow her down… and give her another source of anger to feed off of.

It would be embarrassing to have to petition the Dark Council for fresh support, especially if they find out that one apprentice tore through the first batch.

I was committed. "Half of them could kill you, but I don't like to play favorites."

"Then you shall lose them _all_ ," she said darkly, voice thick with command.

The sounds of jetpacks and shouting voices made me look away. From a nearby rooftop… _Republic soldiers_ were pouring in. Republic soldiers! In service to a Sith!

The distraction nearly cost me my life: the instant I took my eyes off her she lunged forward, covering the distance between us in one effortless leap. She was mid-jump when I lashed out the first time, missing her completely. Only a quick push through the Force sent Dellocon sprawling out of the way.

She landed hard, denting the floor beneath her feet and swiping out with her off handed lightsaber as though it was a claw. If I'd been slower in jumping back she'd have severed one leg at knee height.

Her use of the Force in combat was elegant, an innate draw, something she'd practiced for so long and with so much dedication that, by now, she didn't have to _think_ about it anymore. It made her nimble, added precision to her balance, she didn't have to stop and think to make a _lunge_ or to jump out of reach only to land with staggering force.

I was good.

She proved better.

With one parry she sent my lightsaber spinning away, brought her blade close enough that I could feel the hum as a physical sensation. One move, one flinch, and I'd feel the burning cut. We stood there like that as the soft sounds of a battle concluded—the sounds of the injured and the silence of the dead filling the air.

"Die well, Lord Rathari," she declared, her orange eyes glittering as they bored into mine.

There was no time to say anything: before her words died, her lightsaber punched through my chest. I hit the ground when, with one strong push, she slid me off the blade instead of turning the thing off.

Her face looming over me was going to be the last thing I saw. I opened my mouth, but a tight band of invisible pressure closed over my throat, stopping my words. From her boot, she produced a stiletto. A second later I found myself being forced back, back, back into darkness, a will more powerful than mine pushing me down, submerging me in darkness, stopping function—

 **Nar Shaddaa, Part IV**

"Malediction! Aw, come on, I said the word! Hey, you. Wake up!" a soft, peeping voice insisted. "Will you wake up already? _Malediction_!"

The word _malediction_ grabbed me, hooked into me like a hook into an unwary fish, dragging me out of silence, out of a sleep so profound it brought the one experiencing it to the very brink of death. My last memory were those burning orange eyes.

Now though, a blue face with big, violet eyes swam above me.

"Oh, good," the Twi'lek sighed, sitting on her heels. "Before you get any cute ideas—Her Lordship sent me. You know, the one who kicked your butt?"

I was… alive.

I was the only one. My men lay scattered about, as did several Republic soldiers—far fewer than had arrived with the enforcer, meaning she'd let them go… or killed them somewhere else. Dellocon lay in two still lumps, effectively taken out of the world once his protector had fallen.

So why was _I_ alive?

I sat up slowly.

"She said you'd be a little woozy for a bit," the Twi'lek said, crouching on her heels with her elbows folded on her knees. "She had to put you under kinda hard. You know. 'Cuz of the audience. She wants to see you, though. I'm supposed to take you there. Can you get up?"

If I understand what's happened—what, not necessarily why—then I was dead wrong about this Sith. Suspension of the kind I'd just experienced is a touchy thing, not something taught on Korriban. In fact, I would say most people would consider it of such limited use as to not bother with it.

The Twi'lek helped me get to my feet, anxiety and nervousness radiating off her.

"Where is she?" I asked hoarsely.

"Here." She produced a slap-patch and, when I looked at it confusedly, she sighed and immediately stood on tiptoe to put it over my right ear.

When I touched the bandage I found by feel that I no longer _had_ a right ear. It had been cleanly severed, though from the tenderness of the flesh someone had, somehow, managed to close it up so I didn't bleed to death while I lay here… the same was true for the lightsaber wound in my chest.

I shivered. I'd grossly underestimated this apprentice, it seemed.

There was only one way to get answers, and that was to follow the Twi'lek. I had no doubts: if I harmed the messenger, the enforcer would finish what she started; if I failed to appear before her when summoned, the enforcer would finish what she started; if I wanted any kind of answers, there was only one course of action.

Naturally, I took it. It didn't make sense for me to be alive.

The Twi'lek walked me to a rapid travel vehicle, looking nervous the entire time. From there, we made two stops, changing vehicles. Then, at the third stop, the enforcer joined us while the Twi'lek got out, leaving the credit chit she'd been using to pay the fares with the enforcer.

"I'll be here, Boss," the Twi'lek assured her as she shut the door so the vehicle could take off.

The Enforcer was no longer dressed like a Sith enforcer. Rather, the aura of the Dromund Kaas elite clung to her like perfume. "I hope you don't mind parting with that ear. It was necessary to maintain the deception," she declared after a few silent minutes. "Baras would be heartbroken if I didn't send him a souvenir from his least favorite place in the galaxy."

I pushed aside the flare of hatred hearing That Bastard's name evoked. The fact that she was duping her master—or seemed to be—was much more interesting.

The cab made sense: it was a place unlikely to be bugged and, if what I'd witnessed was true, anyone watching transactions to plot a course would see the Twi'lek here and the Enforcer elsewhere. They would swap back later.

"And what deception would that be?" I asked.

"That you're quite dead, of course. As far as Baras knows, you are. Even as we speak, the good captain is informing Baras that he checked your vital signs and found none." She smirked smugly. "And when he does so, Baras will sense no lie in him."

"I doubt you did this out of the goodness of your heart."

"Of course not," she answered dismissively. "But I am not shortsighted. I would rather not provoke the Dark Council if I don't have to. Producing you when you are believed to be dead would be a good way to deflect any animosities Baras might allow to fall upon me. No. I am trading you your life for your service."

That was surprising, but utterly conservative. No blunt instrument this, and the fact that she can convince people she is only a hammer for That Bastard's selected nails is an illusion of the first degree. "Who trained you?"

"Lord Augustine Renault," she answered simply.

I knew of the man only because he was worthy of mention as a swordsman. Also… "He doesn't take apprentices."

"No, he doesn't. But Lord Augustine isn't the subject of this conversation. Your service to me is."

I studied her profile, the angular features, the jaw that was just a little too heavy, the vividly red hair. Daughter. Not apprentice, _daughter_. "I'm listening."

"Good. I grant you your life but make you my minion. I am under Baras' watchful eyes—and when not under his, my good captain spies for him."

And she lets the man _live_?

"Your task is simple: build my power base. Devote yourself to advancing my interests. Do this and do it well: you may rule as you like, pursue whatever ventures you like, under my name. Any resources I obtain through my own means will be diverted to you for safekeeping. You will be expected to make reports to me about your progress and schemes, but I shall arrange them so that your continuing existence does not come to light before we are prepared."

It was not a bad deal, as these things go. However, 'ruling' held no interest for me. "And Baras?"

"And Baras," she nodded. "I sense your hatred for him."

An idiot could do _that_.

"I'm not a fool: eventually he will want my head so eventually I will kill him. Supporting me supports the best candidate for doing so. And, if it is feasible, you may attend the confrontation. _If_ it is feasible," she reiterated, gesturing with a forestalling finger.

There wasn't much to consider. She bested me quite handily and, at that time, I'd thought myself the best candidate for destroying That Bastard. I had no doubt she would boot me out of the vehicle if I declined. I had no doubt that she would finish what she started if she thought for one minute I was not wholly devoted to her interests.

And she wouldn't care either way. I could be useful, live, and see my revenge—apparently she sensed that my need to see That Bastard destroyed was strong enough and vicious enough not to care _who_ struck the killing blow as long as it was struck. Or I could be properly dead. The choice was mine.

I didn't like her, but I'd certainly learned, in short order, to respect her. And for Sith that's saying something. This was a world-shaker, a monster biding her time before showing the galaxy what she was in one spectacular moment. And I felt certain that, once That Bastard was dead, I would be returned to the Council.

Void take it, she would probably be _on_ the Council by that point. Thus, I would not necessarily leave her service once my former master realized I was alive, preserved in defiance of this Sith's master's wishes.

"My lord, I am your man. I shall wait with patience for your summons and, in the meantime, exhaust myself in your service."

"Excellent. I shall spare you the usual threats."

She doesn't need them. Not until That Bastard is dead. Then, we'll see. But if what I extrapolate is correct… she won't need them afterward, either. "Have you any specific orders, my lord?"

 **Conclusion**

I studied Rathari carefully, found that he was decidedly devoted to Her Lordship's interests. He was a workhorse and _needed_ to be doing something constructive, so when he'd promised her he would exhaust himself in her service he'd lived up to it.

It helped that she left him to his own devices and didn't micromanage. Better than that, she didn't insist on much face time. All in all, he'd come out on top—even if he was missing an ear. But an ear was a small price to pay for revenge on Baras.

"Now. I believe this was in the nature of an exchange," he concluded.

I smirked at him, considered backing out, then shrugged. I'd not had opportunity to share the tale before. And this was someone who needed to appreciate the apex of the Sith Order that was my master. She destroyed Nomen Karr, after all. She rescued me—which is a side note, I suppose.

And I could sense Rathari's genuine curiosity. It was enough to start with.


	22. Chapter 22

**On Darth Vengean**

I made myself as invisible as possible as I followed Her Lordship briskly through the Citadel. She hadn't said I shouldn't follow so I took it to mean she didn't mind if I did—and trusted I would know enough not to miss a learning opportunity if one presented itself.

She seemed keyed up, as if she expected something exciting to happen but knew enough to dampen her own enthusiasm. I could feel it though, a low, deep thrum across our bond.

The best I could figure was that if we'd started killing generals she expected to continue killing key Republic personnel, and if this Darth Vengean character wanted a war she expected to be somewhere at the forefront. She'd already demonstrated her ability to lead small groups and perform small, specific tasks. It was so in character for her to be ready for something bigger, something newer, something more challenging.

I regarded the way her red hair in its high ponytail swung as she walked.

 _A thing too much in character creates a blind spot—you miss what you don't expect to see because you see what you expect. If something looks_ too in character _take a closer look. Maybe all is as it appears. But if it isn't…_

I mentally nodded. Although she'd given me until morning to deal with Rathari—she hadn't asked for particulars about our all-night chat—she'd had us back to Dromund Kaas post haste. If she was in a rush… why? Was she hoping to get back to Baras before his spies could report? Probably not: she'd overseen the…

…ah. She wanted to get back close to the time the prisoners she took arrived—she'd ended up not conveying them herself. If I knew anything about her master, he wouldn't say anything to _his_ master until he had something concrete, so he'd make sure there was something concrete to be had. Which meant he would have taken time to perform preliminary interrogations. So the likelihood was that this was the earliest he would contact his master… and she either wanted to eavesdrop or—more importantly and under the guise of being a good little apprentice—be noticed.

She wanted a look at her master's master, now that the opportunity had come about.

 _Always know who it is you're killing._

Yes, I can see Baras taking a bite if he scented (or created) weakness in his superior. And I can see him using her as a weapon because he can say 'oh, sir, I'm so sorry—my stupid apprentice went off the reserve! But as you've killed her it's alright. I won't make such a poor choice again!' if she screws up.

The idea of that tin-faced Darth saying all of this in a tone reminiscent of Tuvi made me smile, but humorlessly.

Voices came up the long hall that afforded the Darth's chambers some privacy. " _—you who took out General Gonn?_ " a tinny voice asked.

I let Her Lordship pull a little ahead of me, then checked myself. The idea being, of course, to observe without being actively noticed. Her Lordship's suggestion that I might be more use as a sneaky assassin-type had gone a long way with me. I was fine for an up-front slaughter… but she can do that herself. Rather, mightn't it impress her if she had someone to discreetly take out garbage or bring home something she needed to question?

I had to chuckle—it made me sound a bit like her handmaid when painted that way. That was a kind of handmaid-ing I could live with.

"It was, Lord Vengean," Baras answered, tone properly humble.

Her Lordship stopped just inside the doorframe, and I angled myself to watch Darth Baras—I couldn't get a look at Darth Vengean with her in the way, so I didn't try.

"The Fringe Systems begin to ripen for the taking."

The tinny voice hummed approval.

The cool air of the Citadel pressed against my bare arms… until I realized the air wasn't what was cold: the Force simply pressed against my perceptions as being cold. This probably stemmed from so many Dark Side masters in one place. I hadn't noticed the last time I was here. The realization suddenly made me aware of… something… it was like someone had turned up the volume on sound except I wasn't really hearing _sound_.

I focused on the voices, closing my eyes, willing myself not to reject this extrasensory feedback. The mind, I'd learned, was prone to trying to close itself off from strangeness, and for me using the Force as a sense rather than as a power still fell under the heading 'strangeness from which the mind recoils.'

" _Such an advantage will prod the Dark Council out of passivity. They will see that war is the only opt—who stands by eavesdropping?_ " the voice of Darth Vengean demanded sharply. " _You know I do not like to be observed._ "

But he _spoke_ before he _acted_ , which said something. Several somethings, as I think about it.

I caught it like a ripple of warm water in a cold current, a waft of irritation. Baras probably knew Her Lordship had arrived and placed herself to observe silently, but he had not drawn attention to her—possibly hoping she would remain ignored while he took credit for her work.

"My lord, this is my most distinguished apprentice—Lord Renault." Baras answered, his tone not altering in the slightest, though he gestured Her Lordship forward.

I moved into her place at the door, concentrating on staying practically invisible.

She took a knee when she stopped just behind Baras' shoulder, head bowered, utterly respectful… and utterly silent.

Darth Vengean—on holo, not in person—glared at this interruption but ignored me entirely. Maybe he didn't perceive me, maybe he just didn't care. Maybe he'd noticed Her Lordship but only drew notice to her because he felt her strength. Some Force users can affect or perceive things they can see even if they're only seeing over a holo.

" _Renault? Are you certain?_ "

"Balanchine-Renault," Baras corrected himself. "The daughter."

" _Mmm_ ," Vengean mused, bright beady eyes flicking over Her Lordship. " _Yes._ "

"She is also the deliverer of General Gonn's head." I'll bet Baras hates admitting it. Look at him: he meant to take all the credit himself!

Creep.

Vengean, unlike Baras of the squat rotundity, was built like a man twenty years (or more) younger than he actually was. His skin looked fragile, though… like the delicate skin of the very old, or like wet paper, as if clumsy fingers could catch on it and tear it free of his bones. He wore red armor and a long cape, his head encased in a kind of helmet that probably did more than hide bald spots. Even in the blue cast of the hologram, I could see that his skin had darkened around the mouth and eyes.

Ravaged. That was a good way to describe his features.

" _I see. Funny you haven't mentioned this one before._ " He considered Her Lordship for a few longer moments. " _In serving Baras you serve me. Do you understand?_ "

Can he _try_ not to sound like a greedy child grabbing at all the toys in reach?

"I am at the service of my master's master," Her Lordship answered, taking this acknowledgment as permission to rise, though she kept her head canted subserviently. I knew she was watching everything from beneath her lashes though, drinking in all the details—the obvious and the less obvious—in this meeting.

" _I'm impressed with your choice of apprentice, Baras_ ," Vengean said slowly, tone limned with suspicion. " _But I won't continue this discussion in her presence. Send her away and we shall finish._ "

It happened exactly as he said. Baras dismissed Her Lordship, she was suitably polite, then we retreated from the Citadel. "And the point of this exceptionally short trip?" Her Lordship asked as we settled into the rapid transit vehicle.

"You were seen, noted, and acknowledged," I answered promptly. "Baras had to admit to you and publically credit you for your success, rather than sucking it up himself. The wretched toad."

Her Lordship laughed at this. "Don't let him fool you: Baras is formidable, even if he doesn't do his own killing. Now, how about a spot of lunch while we wait? I don't doubt Baras rather hopes we'll hang around shifting from foot to foot like someone's waiting women. There's a lovely little café I know. We shall stand out _atrociously_."

I grinned at this and nodded eagerly. That meant two Sith in working clothes smack dab in the middle of an aristocratic crowd. People are so funny about things like that.

 **On the Training Floor**

Sweat accumulated on my skin in such quantities that my linen top soaked up enough to make it stick unpleasantly. My hair sent droplets dripping or flying every time I moved, and Lord Augustine seemed to have no intention of ending the exercise before he injured me. Except for my face, which burned, my skin felt unpleasantly cold.

I hated him, everything from his hard eyes to his red hair, to his bad attitude.

"Is that the best my stupid daughter has managed?" he demanded, giving his lightsaber a twirl, much as Her Lordship does to loosen her wrist when the muscles start to tighten. "To give ground and hope for rescue?" Like Her Lordship, he prowled back and forth rather than stand still.

I glared at him. "Hardly, my lord. I simply don't see the need to attack you." I didn't expect to get under his skin, so I didn't hold out any hope of it. But I liked the cutting sound of the words, the neat implication that actually _fighting_ him wasn't worth the time or effort.

I yelped as, suddenly, I found myself on the floor, flung there by the Force (which Her Lordship said he wasn't prone to using in a training bout) and bad temper. I landed with a hard smack that knocked the wind out of me. a heavy, invisible hand remained squarely on my chest, almost squeezing the breath form my lungs.

His lightsaber blade appeared at my throat. "You will kindly take things seriously when you are on this training floor," he said evenly, suddenly and forcibly reminding me of Her Lordship. "Any idiot can hold off an assailant until help arrives. I don't know if I'm looking at poor training, a weak apprentice, or both."

I choked on my own indignation.

"Yes," he sneered, removing the blade from my throat. "Lie there and gurgle. A powerful infant, that's what she's brought home. I swear, that girl's brain is defective…" He waved and the crushing pressure holding me down released. "Get up."

I couldn't tell if he was goading me or just talking to himself. Anger thrummed between my ears. My hands shook with it. "If she's so poor," I growled, pulling my lightsaber back to hand, "then blame her teacher for failing her."

In six moves—all of which were more aggressive and more powerful than before—Lord Augustine found an opening and tipped me onto my butt again.

"She's a headstrong brat who thinks she knows everything in the galaxy."

"A viewpoint you were happy to imprint upon her, I'm sure," I growled back, glaring at him. "Afraid of her, are you?"

The lightsaber blade passed so close to my throat I could feel the hum of it as a physical sensation.

I _looked_ at him as I scowled into his face.

To my surprise I found something like approval for me. Insight came from feedback, the one of the increasingly frequent bursts of insight from my gift, which seemed to be evolving into a passive skill I no longer needed to truly focus on to bring into use.

 _There was pride for her; pride and love, and relief that she'd found such a steady apprentice. I'd harnessed my anger but I hadn't let it lead me into blindly attacking him as a way of venting it. He hated her master and feared for her… but seeing me so reasonably capable for being such a new apprentice gave him some comfort that at least she would not have to fight two wars—against her master with her apprentice sneaking up behind her—at once. For all her certainty that he was a monster, he had her best interests at heart, for whom 'love' equated to teaching her not to embarrass him by getting herself killed…_

…she was wrong. Here was a father who loved his daughter and was so incredibly proud of her. He hated her master and feared that he, himself, might have failed to prepare her for the inevitable war that would come from having such a master.

I yelped as I hit the ground again.

"Stop sprawling on the floor like that. It's indecent." With those words, I knew the training bout was over. I had a few bruises, but from what I know of Her Lordship's training he was positively gentle—not a burn on me.

"You need to work on that right elbow," he announced, clipping his lightsaber to his belt and regarding me critically. "You lead too much with it; it gives you away, but it also makes your movements clumsy. Show me."

I nervously obeyed, wincing when he realigned how I held my right arm.

"Easier from the shoulder, you see? Now, slowly, swing. Feel that?"

Either he was very worried about Her Lordship or I'd managed to garner his approval because the lesson was quite beneficial without being hard on my hide.

 **On Summons**

"Well, that took longer than I thought," Her Lordship announced sardonically, then set aside the novel she'd curled up on her couch with. She waved the servant who'd brought the summons away negligently, but not unkindly.

I, on the other hand, abandoned perusal of a kind of short-listed history of the Sith Order, a who's who of history and why they were noteworthy. I'd gotten past all the Sith Lords in the Valley of the Dark Lords and had entered a span of fairly forgotten (by anyone not an historian or student of history) Sith Lords. It was a little dry, but interesting enough.

Someone is always killing someone or sleeping with someone else, in Sith history.

"I'm going to tell you what Tremel told me: Darth Baras is a serious man, even when he pretends to smile. Don't let your guard down for one minute around him. He's going to sound you out, try to figure out who and what you are. He'll poke you and prod you, watching for slips in your composure." She frowned.

"But…" I paused not sure I wanted to expose the rest of the thought.

"I'd be required to wait outside. He asked for you, not for me." Although he did ask _her_ to send me along. "I have faith in your discretion, Jaesa. Just don't let him rattle you."

"I've had Lord Augustine in my face with a live weapon in hand," I answered dryly in my turn. "That seems good practice for not getting rattled."

Her Lordship chuckled. "That's certainly true. How did that go, by the way?"

I considered then shrugged. "It was a learning experience."

She nodded as though this was more than good enough. "Wear your armor—you'll need every sense of protection and security you can get."

That was the conclusion I'd already reached.

 **On Darth Baras**

It was with some trepidation that I made my way down the hall to the heavy doors (today open) of Darth Baras' chambers. The place seemed darker and colder without Her Lordship's red-haired, capable presence. I didn't miss the subtext: she sent me on my own, wasn't afraid to leave me to my own devices, even in the presence of her master.

"Captain."

Seeing the Captain coming out of Baras' office made my stomach twist unpleasantly.

"My lord." He inclined his head politely, didn't seem shaken up to see me at all.

"Fancy meeting you here," I smiled disingenuously.

"Indeed." Again, he seemed unfazed, as though he had nothing to be ashamed of and without twinges of conscience to bother him.

What can I say? The idea of him meeting with the Darth quite alone and unobserved made me nervous.

"Don't let me keep you, Jaesa," the Captain announced in an undertone that wouldn't carry.

I shook myself, nodded once and started down the hallway again, making a note to let Her Lordship know that Baras and the Captain have been meeting in secret.

I squelched the thought, filling my mind—as so many Sith seemed to—with the rains of Dromund Kaas. I'd never expected the Sith to find comfort in such a sound—but why else focus on the rain? Everywhere one looked were images of water slipping and sliding down the glass domes that protected their minds from anyone who might be listening.

So different from the Jedi who, in such a 'safe' locale did not practice the same art with such dedication. Discipline at work again: keeping something off your face and out of your body language was one thing; it meant nothing if you couldn't keep it where no one could 'hear' it.

Baras was actually listening to the radio—I recognized something by Lord Ulios playing softly.

Her Lordship hates Lord Ulios; according to her, he's somewhat hyped up and his overly-complex treatment of simple subjects is pretentious enough to give her headaches.

I knew all this because it was part of the classical portion of my training. She much prefers Lord Andres for theatrical productions. Personally, I don't have a problem with Ulios. The idea of Sith lords so deeply involved in art is just strange… and quite novel.

"Ah, the young apprentice. Come in," Baras waved me into the room and I entered, stopping some five feet or so back from his desk.

"My lord. You summoned me, and I have come." I announced formally before taking a knee, waiting a five count, then rising. Apparently, this was proper for my master's master; for Her Lordship, since her master's master was on the Dark Council, she would kneel until indicated she was permitted to rise. But Baras was just a Darth.

Sith interactions did have a background grid of forms and formalities that helped them navigate the intricacies of their own society—and those were considered part of the 'classical part' of my education. Many ignored them, but according to Her Lordship the really good Sith knew how to move through this grid and the very best Sith knew how to work it to their advantage.

In this case, my task was simply to show that Her Lordship was quite loyal to him without gushing about it and not to say anything that might compromise her.

Or the Captain, but I think he's already horribly compromised. Still, I won't add to that if I don't have to. Whatever Her Lordship's interest in him… best Baras think it something common, something classically Sith.

"It's been some time since you joined my apprentice's retinue," Baras announced pleasantly—which was not the case at any previous time he'd addressed me. The first time I met him, I had the impression he didn't know how to talk to a woman of my age. "I wanted to see how you were settling in."

"Quite well, my lord, as you may observe." Just beneath the surface, I let the pride and devotion show. It would be easy for him to write me off as just my master's puppet. Expectation causes blind spots… but I think he knows this.

"Yes, it does look as though she's putting a great amount of effort into you." The Darth studied me in silence. "I sense your devotion to her."

"I do owe her everything, my lord. What can I do except give everything back to her in service?"

"I merely find it surprising. Your transition was quite painful—and I cannot help but notice that she was very heavy-handed during the campaign."

That sneaky bastard. Try to seed doubt in _me_ will he—? I clamped down on the sudden surge of anger and bitter resentment, not allowing myself to think past the fact that _he_ was the cause of all my sorrows… sorrows now growing mercifully distant, aching every so often but not self-destructive. One doesn't blame the lightsaber, but the hand that wields it. "All change involves pain, my lord," I answered, quoting a vid I'd watched on Alderaan.

"That is true, to an extent," Baras nodded. "I take it your training is going well?"

"It's very thorough, my lord." And boy is it. Everything from etiquette and history, to culture and current events… and that's without combat, manipulation of the Force, and all the 'Sith arts.' It should be overwhelming to look at the breadth of topics covered, but I never _feel_ overwhelmed.

"Then you won't mind if I quiz you a little? Taking on an apprentice is a great responsibility, and you are Hellanix's first." He did his best to sound benign, as though he did worry a little over his favored apprentice taking such a big step.

What does he want from me? What is he looking for? "As you would have it, my lord."

He did quiz me, and fairly rigorously. I don't know if I surprised him, but he seemed satisfied by the time we were done. My brain felt like a wrung sponge in a way it hadn't since the first few days of training.

"I don't suppose you'd humor me with one more question?" Baras asked.

My stomach twisted, fairly certain he wasn't really asking permission. This was what he'd been working my brain over for, making it harder for me to conceal truth when faced with blunt questioning. This was what he was after, the reason he called me in here. He'd softened me up, and now he was coming to the point he most wanted to address. I felt certain of it. "Of course, my lord."

"A working Sith such as your master can hardly be too careful about the company she keeps."

It had to remember quickly that a Twi'lek slave is hardly worth noting, and not to do so. Else, he'd assume there was some kind of fondness or familiarity there. "But, my lord, you already know the Captain," I answered, sounding surprised by the question. Honestly, I did think he might poke this issue. What was surprising was that he did it so acutely.

What blind spot is he trying to trip me into?

"Not as well as you might think. He's a loyal Imperial, true, but he would never be entirely… shall we say up-front about his opinions of his master. There are finer officers I could put at your master's disposal, but she took a shine to him and I thought there was no harm in letting her have her way at the time." He sounded truly indulgent by this point. "But I trust her with such important matters. You understand my concern."

"The Captain is…" I frowned, making a show of thinking hard. "He's… _so_ _boring_ ," I finally blurted out, remembering Vette's many criticisms of the Captain. "I've never met such a bland personality… or someone so adept at playing the toady without actually being so crass as to actually _be_ one. He's handsome enough for some, but the sooner she gets bored with him and sends him away the better. I think it's disgusting," I continued to rant, as if I'd lost track of the person to who I was speaking in the relief of being able to say all that was on my mind. "For his part… she's a powerful Sith and apprenticed to a powerful master. Why wouldn't he be willing to humor her? It could do _so_ much for his career. Of course _she_ won't hear a word against him. I suspect she's not thinking with her head to be hon-honest!" I gasped as though realizing how much freedom I'd given my tongue, turned a nervous, uncomfortable expression to the Darth. "I… ah… that is to say…" I swallowed hard, willing myself to blush… I don't know if it worked.

I focused one every embarrassing thing that ever happened to me, willing myself to really feel, to _steep_ in embarrassment over having talked too much, just leave it all out where he could sense it if he tried. 

"I completely understand," the Darth nodded. "Well, that's between them, I suppose. You needn't mention I indulged in a little gossip. One can never be too careful."

"You… won't mention to her that I said all these things?" I asked, wrinkling my face up. "As you said, her private affairs are none of my business and she'll be so angry if she even thinks I've been carrying tales…" I didn't think the show of uncertainty and trepidation, as though what I'd said and done had just caught up with me, came across as anything but natural—I even began pleating my lower robe nervously, as I would have done whilst a Jedi.

I'm sure he noted the 'nervous' gesture. "Oh, no, no of course not. It will be our little secret."

Sure it will. I had to resist the urge to study him closely, to see what was going on behind those voluminous robes and that obscuring mask. Let him think the thing between Her Lordship and the Captain is physical on her side and advancement-oriented on his. Let him think the Captain is a bigger blind spot than he is.

And we'll see if this tin-faced Darth overplays himself.

I hope so.


	23. Chapter 23

**Taris, Part I**

Taris was a hot, humid, swamp of a world. For those first few moments after stepping outside the airlock, the air felt more like a sludge than _air_.

With Her Lordship forever urging me make use of my Force sensitivity as an actual _sense_ and not a use-on-demand ability, I'd done my best to do just that. I still felt like I did a lot of use-on-demand, but sometimes I perceived things I might otherwise miss. It's like any other muscle: it needs to be exercised to be of any use to anyone.

The Force hung flat, sullen and morose which only made the air feel thicker. Taris wilted and brooded. When I felt at it as we made planetfall, I found there was a reason for it: under the brooding was something like a scream—or hundreds, thousands, millions of screams and the scent of burning duracrete. There was a kind of gap in the Force… like a pothole… I'd heard such phenomena described but was never actually close enough to feel for myself. It was probably not as extreme as it had been when it happened, but there did seem to be a sort of slow-to-fill emptiness in the Force… it was just unnervingly empty.

The Jedi teach that births and deaths affect the Force. Whatever else they have wrong, they were right about this. Three hundred years after this place was decimated by a Sith and there were still traces of the… injury… within the Force.

I'll ask Her Lordship about it later.

More comfortable to contemplate—though not less uncomfortable in its own way—was the feeling that if I broke into the least sweat I wouldn't be dry until such a time as I got back to the ship where climate was beautifully controlled. Not that I was eager to get back to the ship, it was just a string of facts. I like new experiences and new places, even if they aren't comfortable or pleasant.

The smell of the place was horrible, a combination of stale water, rotting things, strange algal blooms mingled with something noxious and decidedly chemical. In puffs I caught what might have been spicy cooking… but maybe the fumes were messing with my head. If it was cooking, the spicy smell suggested something that would take the roof off your mouth and strip your tongue of taste buds. It was enough to make someone nauseous if they caught more than just a whiff.

For a moment, as we stepped off the ship, I could understand why some Sith sneered at the military. Whoever built the Toxic Lake Garrison was a complete _genius_. And when I say 'genius' I really mean 'fool too stupid to live.'

They put the garrison in a basin-like land formation that had, at its very bottom—yes!—a _toxic lake_! They had to _build_ their bunkers and base and they built it over _a toxic lake_. It isn't as if Taris is overpopulated. It isn't as though there wasn't high ground somewhere more practical.

It's a buyer's market, so to speak.

I don't buy for one moment that they figured it was a place the Republic would never try to take. There are—have _got_ to be—better, equally or better defensible places.

Even the Captain looked pained by the location of this stupid little garrison.

"Captain, I do believe I've found my way to another Imperial punishment detail," Her Lordship murmured softly to him.

"I believe you are correct, my lord," the Captain agreed, wincing as he regarded the outpost before shaking his head.

With this, he escorted her towards the bunker where the actual HQ was, Vette and I falling in behind them.

Unlike previous encounters with the military, Her Lordship seemed quite… sedate… more the aristocrat slumming it than a Sith Lord on a mission.

I cocked my head as I regarded her. I wouldn't call hers a reassuring presence, but she seemed decidedly not hostile. And the Captain really did seem to be _escorting_ her, more like an officer supplied as a courtesy to a VIP than someone under her direct authority.

According to Vette, this was how she approached Balmorra, making as few waves as possible until she needed to. _Then_ she'd put the fear of the Emperor into whomever she needed to.

That makes sense. No one would call her a Sith on a leash (and survive the rebuttal), but it shows she's not innately hostile towards the military, nor already planning how to muck up their work. She's a Sith whose favor might be courted… and whose ire isn't easy to get up.

It was fun watching the eyes of the Imperials slide from Her Lordship and the Captain to Vette, and then over me as if their eyes couldn't stick to me. They'd probably remember there had been someone else present, but I'd be a hazy impression at best. It gave me a cynical sort of amusement.

They can't help being weak-minded, I suppose.

We, including Her Lordship, waited as the Captain spoke briefly with someone's aide. The aide answered quickly, then approached Her Lordship at the Captain's shoulder. "My lord, welcome to Taris," she announced briskly, bowing deeply. "You've been anticipated."

The Captain turned to Her Lordship. "My lord, I have a copy of your security packet from Balmorra. If it pleases you, I can have you input into the system during your meeting with Moff Hurdenn. It will spare you the inconvenience of having to wait."

"Speed it through, Captain," Her Lordship answered. "Will you need Jaesa?"

"I have, of course, already assembled a clearance packet for her as well. It will require addition of a biomarker. As there is a standard battery of vaccinations for personnel operating on Taris, I could take the marker and apply it to her credentials while vaccines are administered. I do recommend the vaccines, my lord. Taris is rather rough on personnel, even the most capable of Sith."

There weren't many Imperials who could make that kind of suggestion—that of a preventive measure—to a Sith lord and particularly not with the confidence that the suggestion would be duly considered. I could almost see the aide's admiration for the Captain rising...

…hn. She'd better keep that admiration professional or her body will never be found. Taris is a swamp world. There are _lots_ of places to hide a body on a swamp world.

"Excellent reasoning as always, Captain. Speed it through."

The Captain bowed his head, then took off at a brisk march.

"You may conduct us to Moff Hurdenn. Once my meeting with him is complete, you will be expected to conduct us to Captain Quinn," Her Lordship instructed the aide.

"As you would have it, my lord," the aide declared. "This way, my lords." Her eyes passed over me, but this time they stuck, indicating that my low-level manipulation didn't work on her.

With this, she turned on her heel and set off at a brisk march of her own, leading us into the heavy duracrete bunker. The air within was marginally dryer, which was a relief. The place reminded me very much of Kaas City—and I wondered just how it was that the whole Toxic Lake Garrison didn't sink into said lake, the weight of the duracrete being what it was. Then again, having seen Kaas City, perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. Imperials build so things will last.

A homeworld like Dromund Kaas drums that sort of thing into the mindset.

The aide led us to an alcove—one of many—containing a large holomap and several Imperials. Most of them wore the standard grey, but two of them wore heavy armor—armor that looked like it had been outside the garrison's perimeter recently.

The bigger of the two mud-spattered men glared down at a skinny Moff, his expression fierce with an undertone of distaste—an undertone, I might add, that hung in the air like a bad smell. Brown-haired and ruddy-faced, he was enormous. I thought Rathari was large, but this Imperial was just… beefy. Like a solid wall or a battering ram. Unlike so many Imperials—our dear Captain among them—this soldier was far from neatly trimmed and immaculately groomed. His hair was braided close to his head but full sideburns led to a slightly scruffy beard—with no mustache. He looked like a man rejecting the 'stupid' parts of the system he'd thrown himself into.

Those were just my opinions—the big blazon on his shoulder guard (and that of the smaller, more disgruntled-looking man with him) seemed to replace a rank indicator. A man who preferred to be known by his personal affiliations rather than by his place in the machine that was the Imperial Armed Forces.

I knew Her Lordship probably saw more than I did, but I felt unusually confident that we were dealing with some kind of maverick.

And he so sweetly confirmed it as soon as Her Lordship stopped walking, the two of us blocking the alcove's entrance. "Moff Hurdenn. The Sith is here." He nodded respectfully to Her Lordship even as he didn't sound pleased to have been the first to notice, even if the Moff had his back to us and Her Lordship walks quietly as a habit.

"What?" the Moff stiffened then turned around. "Oh! Oh, yes… I didn't see you come in."

Naturally, as you were looking the wrong way. That's not going to impress Her Lordship, little toad.

"You must be the Sith Darth Baras sent. Welcome to Taris, my lord." The Moff bowed flamboyantly.

The big soldier's comrade rolled his eyes, his mouth twisting.

The Moff looked like almost every other Imperial officer I'd ever seen—and he seemed to have starched his mustache. It was a sharp little thing that quivered strangely at the ends every time he moved his upper lip.

"Try to pay attention to your surroundings," Her Lordship declared coolly, ensconcing herself at the holomap between the two field operatives on the one side, and the Moff and his entourage on the other. "Had I been an enemy, you would be dead."

I placed myself just behind her, watching closely.

The two field operatives both showed signs of pleasure at seeing _someone_ draw the Moff up short like that.

The Moff looked affronted. "I am quite confident that my command center is well garrisoned."

The Moff, I didn't even need my gift to know it, was a fearful little toady, a suck-up of the first order. Cowardly and conniving, he was sneaky but not with any real success. There was a reason he was on this stinkhole of a world and it wasn't because he could get things done.

The field operative was also what I'd expected—big and brash, he was a glory hound… but knew to keep that curbed, so his enthusiasm didn't get him killed or put him at odds with some Sith or other. I had the impression, though nothing concrete to reinforce it, that he didn't worry about the officers around him. Sith were a concern, but as long as one got results how could they complain?

I don't know how many Sith he's met, but he's got a good mindset for dealing with Her Lordship.

Her Lordship didn't say anything, but the Moff started to squirm, discomfort coloring the air. I'll bet she smiled at him, that 'would you like me to test that theory?' smile of hers. My question is whether she's courting these two soldiers; it sounds like the way she handled that lord on Alderaan, the one the Captain told me about. She cowed him to keep him in line, true, but she also did it to salve the feelings of his discontented 'protectors.'

"…but I heed your point," the Moff concluded.

"I am Sith Lord Hellanix Balanchine-Renault, apprentice of Darth Baras. My apprentice, Jaesa Willsaam," she indicated me as she spoke, directing herself to the two _soldiers_ (as opposed to the Moff and his little grey men). I suppose that they hadn't removed themselves indicated they had a right to be here and if they did it meant they were directly involved with the mission.

"M'lord," both men nodded briskly, eyes fixed on her. It wasn't the usual deference the military paid a Sith; it was certainly courtesy, certainly respectful. It was interesting to see, especially as it contrasted so starkly with the Moff and his flunkies—I'd begun to think, from their blandly interested expressions, there were there because he liked to present a certain picture to an outsider.

"I have never had opportunity to assist Darth Baras before. But I have _long_ been an admirer of his work—and yours, of course."

He should consider himself lucky. That tin-faced, twin-faced Darth would kill this fellow in short order—and I'd agree with the decision—to save himself cleaning up the man's ineptitude later. Perhaps it was just his manner and Her Lordship's assessment of Taris as a punishment detail coloring my impressions. Maybe I was getting better at reading people.

Or maybe the man really was that shallow.

"Doubt she came all this way to be fawned on," the more vocal soldier declared, waving a 'hurry it along, boss' finger.

The Moff's expression twisted momentarily. "Of course… may I introduce Lieutenant Pierce and his sergeant, Chase? Pierce and his men are on loan from one of our notorious black ops divisions."

Both soldiers drew themselves up, as if this introduction had more weight than the title of Moff ever did.

Oh, the Captain is going to _hate_ them. He's certainly not of this Moff's ilk, but I have the impression that there would be… friction… between him and Pierce. I'd like to see it. The Captain needs someone or something to get his hackles up; it would be good for him and, probably, amusing for everyone else.

"He is hands-down the finest officer I have, and I give you exclusive rein over him while you remain on Taris." This with the magnanimity of someone declaring her Grand Sith Leader of All Taris. "I trust he will accommodate your every need."

"Your service to me begins immediately, Lieutenant, Sergeant," Her Lordship declared simply.

Unlike when Vengean told her that in serving Baras she served him, at which point he sounded like a greedy child snatching at toys, Her Lordship did not give the same impression. Rather, she seemed to simply be assigning people to teams but all the while laying claim to them.

"Good," Pierce returned, Chase seconding his sentiment with a nod.

Her Lordship let out a low chuckle, nodding her own approval.

The Moff shifted uneasily, made nervous by the apparent understanding that was way over his head. "Ye-es… well, I will leave you to your… mission."

I shifted to the side, the motion drawing Pierce's eyes which snapped back to Her Lordship after going over me once or twice.

"If I can offer any further aid, do not hesitate to contact me."

"Thank you, Moff Hurdenn." Her dismissal was clear. If he wasn't part of the operation, he didn't belong in this room.

The Moff bowed again, then withdrew, his men following him. Finally, it was just the five of us: the two soldiers, we two Sith, and Vette hanging around near the wall, listening intently.

Pierce's eyes tracked the Moff's withdrawal. Once he was sure the man was gone, his attention was back on Her Lordship, all professionalism but with hints of frank curiosity and speculation. "Heard we're going after the War Trust," Pierce announced. "Did a little homework. If that is the target, we're fully prepped."

"Then your time has been well spent, Lieutenant: we are indeed hunting the Republic's strategic high command."

Pierce grinned wolfishly at this. "All four of the generals are here on Taris—which _never_ happens. They know better than to put all their eggs in one basket. Means something big's going on. Never show their faces, though. Got our hands on a Republic scout. Leaned on him. _Hard_. He was setting up supply routes for General Frellka, the junior member."

"I would like to speak to this scout," Her Lordship declared.

Pierce's expression faltered a little and Chase's faltered a lot. "…he's dead, m'lord… sorry." At least Pierce's apology was staunch. He screwed up, he accepted it, but dwelling wouldn't do any good.

I don't know how many Sith he's met, but I don't think he's met many. Fortunately, he's dealing with Her Lordship.

"I see." There was a pause during which she regarded the two soldiers, then nodded to herself. "Make a note for future reference, and we'll say no more about it: leave interrogation to the professionals." She wasn't happy, but what else could she do but move on? Some Sith would, I'm sure, have caused all manner of trouble or thrown a tantrum, but Her Lordship's cleverer than that.

Like these soldiers, she's about the mission first and not just because she has that Darth breathing down her neck.

"Been scoping the area the scout described," Pierce resumed, but with a tone suggesting his lack of delicacy with an easily-breakable prisoner was nothing compared to the rest of the preliminary work. I didn't have the impression he was throwing himself at Her Lordship, but he was definitely looking to show up well… in his rather coarse (compared to what I'm used to) way. "Several heavily-armed supply caravans run along carefully staggered routes. Couple dozen soldiers could hit the caravans, pull their transponders, and triangulate their destination with the equipment here." At this, Pierce cast a sour look past Her Lordship.

"But?" she asked.

"But Moff Hurdenn says he can't spare the manpower," Pierce answered, tone almost sullen. I almost had the impression he would have imitated the Moff if he'd had a better idea of the extend of Her Lordship's sense of humor.

Chase discreetly flexed his fists, as though accustomed to cracking his knuckles when he got irritated but didn't want to do it in present company.

Her Lordship glanced at me, one corner of her mouth lifting.

"Oh, I think we're easily the equal of a few dozen of Moff Hurdenn's soldiers, my lord," I declared, aware that both men sized me up again. I know I'm young, still pretty as Sith go, and I certainly don't have Her Lordship's bearing—yet—but the second once-over I got clearly reevaluated my value as an asset.

"Let's not needlessly tax the Moff," Her Lordship agreed.

"Probably best, m'lord," Chase volunteered grimly.

"Guess I'll be running tech, here," Pierce said, a little put-out. "When you're ready," he produced a datapad and began filling it in, "these are the coordinates. Caravans run daily but they vary the times."

"A wise decision, all things considered." Her Lordship took the datapad and examined it, then nodded and handed it to me for inspection.

"Pretty pointless though, if you've got a Sith hunting you. Get those transponders, and I'll get you a line on General Frellka."

"Poor bastard," Chase tacked on with smug amusement.

"Indeed." Her Lordship wasted no more time than it took for her to obtain Pierce's holocom frequency and provide him with hers. Then we were off with the aide who brought us to find the Captain, get our vaccines, and—hopefully—be out in the field before long.

 **Taris, Part II**

I rubbed my arm, trying desperately _not_ to scratch at the vaccine's injection site. And boy, did it _itch_ —Vette had already worried hers badly enough that the Captain threatened to put the next one on her _back_ so she couldn't reach it at all.

"My lord? I wanted to ask about…" I paused, then gestured vaguely.

Her Lordship stopped walking, then turned to face me. "About the hole in the Force?"

"Yes."

"Three hundred years ago, Darth Malak ordered an orbital bombardment that killed the entire populace—excepting the rakghouls."

I shuddered, having read up on the rakghouls. They were nasty pieces of work that were once men… and it's still that way. One bite—some say one scratch—and that's it for you. You join the fold. The interesting thing about rakghouls is that, although the result of an artificial plague, they were able to breed and set up a true population. That doesn't normally happen with engineered species.

"Ignoring the fact that his bombardment failed in its intentions, all those deaths in so short a time left an imprint in the Force. It would have had greater magnitude closer to the event, but it is unlikely ever to fully vanish from the perceptions of those with the necessary faculty." Her Lordship cast around.

"The Jedi teach that the Force lives and grows—that things like births and deaths affect it."

"And no doubt they mysticize it to a ridiculous degree. The Force is just that, _a Force_. It stretches and contacts; pull it here and it shrinks there; one side grows lighter while elsewhere darkness thickens. I have always perceived it as being like water, with all things that exist residing within it. Some make ripples, some fight currents, some remain heedless of it all, others simply fix themselves. In this way, you can imagine Taris as an air bubble within this aqueous medium: there was once something here. Now, all that remains is the empty spot, but it's slow to fill."

It wasn't a perfect metaphor, but it made sense in a lot of ways. I nodded to show I understood.

"Battlefields are often the same, possessing a sort of hollowness or emptiness, as if the air is thinner. It's not always highly noticeable, but if one focuses, one can feel it. I hope we come across one so that you can perceive it for yourself."

This lesson gave me something to chew over as Her Lordship and I slogged our way away from the garrison and into the wilderness of Taris. And, all the way, all the while, I felt that strange emptiness full of screams pressing against my consciousness. I wasn't sure I wanted to fall asleep here.

Fortunately, the swamps were intermittent, which meant paying very close attention to the terrain; that left me carefully prioritizing my concerns.

 **Taris, Part III**

It took several days for Her Lordship and me to find all the necessary supply caravans. During those several days I learned to appreciate how hot and unpleasant a swamp could be, how haunted sleep in the chill swampy night could be when I felt the 'punctured blisters' caused by Darth Malak's attack press against my sleeping mind, and how awful mosquitoes were… for some people.

According to Vette, she was now on security detail for the Captain so the mosquitoes didn't descend in force to drag him off kicking and screaming into the swamps. From certain reddish-purple marks on her, she was having problems, too. I agreed with Vette: the image of the Captain being dragged off into the Tarisian night by a monster-sized mosquito was completely hilarious. I couldn't quite imagine him kicking and screaming—yelling and shooting, perhaps—but for what it was worth… yeah.

Her Lordship was more prosaic (being mostly unaffected by the local bugs) and simply offered her sympathies to him once she was off the holo. Doubtless she'd be _more_ than happy to rub soothing ointment on his itchy spots.

Apparently the Republic was like mold: it crept into a place and you never quite got rid of it—whether because it lingered as a smell or kept growing back. In this case, it was growing back.

I yawned then choked.

Her Lordship topped, glancing back at me.

"…swallowed a bug…" I coughed. That's just gross!

 **Taris, Part IV**

"This is _not_ the place to lurk," Her Lordship warned into the darkness.

"I'm afraid it's part of the job description, my lord," a sweet voice, but one that sounded absolutely exhausted, announced. Out of the darkness melted two figures, one very slight and one much more normally proportioned, but looking larger because of the slightness of the woman.

The smaller shape belonged to a female Rattataki, her face almost gaunt, her eyes too huge and luminously silver. She wore nondescript field clothes and carried a long, slender rifle across her shoulders—and a pistol in hand. Given the mud spatter and the lines of it across her face, stealth was her business and she'd been at it for some days.

"Lt. Claire," Her Lordship said, lowering her lightsaber but not deactivating it.

"Yes, my lord," the Rattataki inclined her head—but there was a hitch in her voice as though she'd had to stop and think about whether the name meant anything to her. A vague tremor of distaste ran through her, but was gone in a brief moment.

Her companion was human, tall and athletic, wrapped in long robes and carrying a staff that—in the bad lighting—looked truly formidable and very unnerving. He stood close to Lt. Claire, protective almost—though whether to protect her from something or to catch her if she stumbled… I wasn't sure. His attention flicked between we Sith and his officer; something about his aura, about _him_ seemed... stilted.

"This is Sith Lord Renault," Lt. Claire clarified for her comrade. "And, I expect, her apprentice?"

"Jaesa Willsaam," I volunteered when Her Lordship tipped her head that I might answer…

Lt. Claire. I remember her—Vette mentioned her when telling me about Balmorra.

"This is my associate," Lt. Claire indicated the man with her.

"We are Vector Hyllus—"

When Her Lordship held her lightsaber up a bit higher—for light, not for menace—I took a step back. The red beam revealed solid-black eyes, like pits of darkness mounted in the man's face. "He's a Joiner." I couldn't stop the reflexive response.

"A what?" Her Lordship asked, arching her eyebrows. Unlike me, because she didn't know better, she remained firm where she was. She probably would have even if she had appreciated what that meant.

Her words were almost drowned out by Lt. Claire's testy, "Yes, and he's also my _colleague_." This time, the dislike was unvarnished, as if she'd love nothing better than to put blaster bolts between our eyes… but had enough sense not to try it. Like the first, the flare was only momentary, vanishing behind the fuzzy grey shield of gibberish.

Her remark was, in turn, almost covered by 'Vector' himself—or rather _themselves_ , "We are." The placid tone of a Joiner grated on my nerves. It was inflectionless, passive.

"I seem to be missing something," Her Lordship declared, pinning me with a look. She did not need to utter the injunction 'explain.'

"It's what the Killiks of Alderaan do with their prisoners," I answered, more tersely than I would have liked.

"We were—are—not their prisoner," Vector responded, tone perfectly calm and terribly reasonable. "Our mission was to make contact with the nests, and we were successful." That's the sickening part: they always seem so damn grateful. The bugs obliterate the person they used to be and the Joiners are _grateful_.

"They take people and make them part of the hive, they share consciousness with the Killiks—there's no real cure. And most of them seem grateful." This time, I managed to sound less terse, more collected. Being made a Joiner is a nightmare on Alderaan, the kind of thing that keeps kids in their beds after dark.

"There is nothing _wrong_ with Vector," Lt. Claire said in a tone of gentle firmness. However, her aura within the Force spasmed and scratched unpleasantly as if there was something wrong with her and it made her eager to lash out… at us. At _Sith_.

This was the third time such hatred concealed with such effort slipped out. I _looked_ into her.

 _Someone had… done… something to her, changed her. It was eating away at her, this change, splintering her, and all I could think was that the Sith had ordered it done. She was angry and afraid, but her Joiner helped with the fear and made her look away from the anger which made it smaller… for a time. He was her touchstone, someone she could lean on… someone she could feel something for, and she_ _did_ _. She needed him on a visceral level, might fall apart, break down, if anything horrible happened to him. Her definitions for 'horrible' were expansive, so many things—likely and unlikely—to fear. Everywhere were shadows and darkness… Imperial Intelligence… she was a spook… and it hurt that the Empire she believed in was assailed by the cancer of_ _Sith_ _. She was dying, little bit at a time, splinters breaking off from the whole because… because she's done her job_ _too well_ _._

"To each his own," Her Lordship said unaffectedly. "And to each his own tasks. Don't let us detain you."

Lt. Claire inclined her head and said nothing more, merely started off into the darkness again, her Joiner following.

I didn't want to, but I did it anyway before the gloom could swallow him up. I couldn't help, much as it chafed me, to realize that the Jedi were right about seeking knowledge and avoiding ignorance. Unlike their interpretation, however, I didn't, wouldn't, refuse or avoid subjects because I found them unpleasant… or because they clashed with what I wanted to be true.

Knowledge is sometimes an unpleasant topic.

 _His mind was strange, partly the man who knew himself to be Vector and, after a strange stiff custard-like mess, the part that belonged to the Hive—but it was to the back, it was why he could function apart from the nests and the swarms. Being even partly in the singular made him feel empty and lonely… but it made the human part develop, like a muscle regaining tone, a method of self-defense. And she was there—the Agent—a fine leader, a good friend… something to be cherished as best he could for as long as he could. There was worry in him, fear for her and if he could have lashed out at someone responsible he might well have done so because he was the nest's guardian… and her ship, her crew, were close enough to stand in for the nest. Her suffering wore on him, rasped at him, like a sock going threadbare at the heel. And he could do nothing more than be there to intervene if necessary. He wondered if he could… be singular… for_ _her_ _._

I avoided the part of him that was closest to the Hive—I sensed that if I got too close I'd end up mentally overwhelmed. He had a kind of filter that allowed him to separate himself—to a degree—from the Many, but I didn't.

"A Joiner would be a long way from home. Shouldn't he be with his… Killiks, if he's one of them?"

"I don't know what he is, apart from the obvious. I've never heard of a Joiner straying too far from his fellows and this one is off-world. Either he's being reconditioned to normalcy—" My head began to shake at the conundrum.

"No, he's content with his condition and the lieutenant would never stand for any changes to be made."

"She's not a lieutenant."

"No, she's not. I have reason to believe she's Imperial Intelligence," Her Lordship answered. "Which makes part of a hive mind traveling in company with her particularly interesting. One would think him a terrible security hazard."

I nodded at this, but assumed that if her higher-ups knew about him then they would have sanctioned his presence. Which made me wonder how much study into Joiners the Empire had conducted. I felt bad for her, this agent or whatever she was, being followed around by such a broken kind of affection.

Because, really, how could a man like that ever really love her? My inner not-quite-squelched romantic mourned the fact that love was such a cruel thing… and looked crueler every time I saw a new instance.


	24. Chapter 24

**Taris, Part V**

Our destination in the Tarisian swamps turned out to be a kind of mining facility, which was odd, since Taris was once an exploited world, meaning it was like Coruscant: there wasn't much left in the way of non-renewable resources (or large-scale agriculture, but that was another thing entirely).

The facility was hot and smelled unpleasantly, which made the humidity even worse. I was sweating like I was on the training floor and it made my clothes—especially my vest—stick uncomfortably in places. Worse than being sweaty was the sense of being clammy… and something down here smelled _weird_ as well as unpleasant.

The miners we encountered mostly wore breathers, though I had the impression this was for personal comfort rather than because whatever they were mining was toxic.

"Whoa!" That was the first word from the first miner we ran into—a beefy human who had clearly been on shift for some time. The grime on his face was broken only by the marks of goggles—cleaner flesh than the rest of his face. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

By now, anyone in earshot had come over to see what was happening… and was wishing they hadn't.

"Now, Sith," he said hurriedly, making me think he really was in charge, trying to sound reasonable or businesslike. He didn't _quite_ manage. "We ain't soldiers, just miners— _contracted_ miners at that!"

"I'm looking for General Frellka," Her Lordship said simply.

Her calm, empty courtesy helped unstick the overseer's—I assume that's what he is—tongue. "The-the general? Yeah, it's his project but he ain't exactly hands-on. Hasn't been by in weeks." He dabbed at his sweating brow with one forearm, smearing the sweat and grim together.

Her Lordship didn't answer right away, merely prowled past him, investigating the nearest tray of whatever the Republic was digging up. "I take it you do have a way to contact him in case of an emergency?" she asked, picking up one of the rocks and weighing it in her hand.

"Y-yeah… you… you gonna kill him?"

She dropped the rock back into the bin before giving him a pointed look. "Yes. Is that a problem for you?"

The miner turned chalky under his dusting of earth and mud, then glanced at his peers. That they hadn't tried to run spoke loudly: they knew there was no point. They could tough this out and hope for rescue (or the very off chance of lenience) or they could be killed immediately for trying to run. "N-no… no, not really. Every contract's gotta end at some point… kinda the nature of the work…"

"Good. Now, if I wished to summon the general I could very easily _generate_ an emergency." She could, but she wants to talk to them. I think she means to destroy them, but she's holding back. That means there's something she doesn't know but wants to.

I walked over to the being of rocks she'd been handling. They were plate-like, reminding me of a lot of thick pages of cellophane in a dark tone with a strangely iridescent sheen, and were lighter than they looked. What was most curious was that it… it felt weird. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I'd never handled a stone that felt like this.

Not that I know much about ore and mining, but this was definitely odd. If I didn't know where it had come from, I wouldn't have recognized it as being a rock or a metal.

"I could… eh… I could trip the silent alarm. That'd bring him out," the head miner offered. "If that's what you want, I can do it."

"Do it."

The miner edged over to the nearest computer and entered a code, then confirmed it. "There you go, Sith… the General's been summoned—"

Her Lordship held up a hand for silence, then walked back over to the bin of rocks. "Do you feel it?" she asked me in an undertone.

"There's something strange about it. I've never handled a rock like this. Not that I'm much involved with rocks."

"Nor I. The Force feels strange around it… can you sense it?"

I nodded. It was strange, but 'strange' was such a vague word. That suggested, to me, that this was either something very new or very old and not at all natural. But I couldn't call it resultant of some Sith ritual or influence.

"What have you been doing here?" Her Lordship asked calmly.

"Like I said, uh, m'lord… we're just miners. Republic flew us out, told us to dig the stuff up."

"Have you ever seen its like before?" she asked, carrying the piece she held over to him.

The miner eyed the fragment in her hand. "Never. Dunno what it is, dunno what it's for. Just that the General wants it—much as he can get."

Her Lordship waited him out. Eventually, he started babbling again and, seeing that she was interested in the ore (or whatever) he decided to babble to some effect. "Doesn't come in veins like you'd think. Flakes up something awful if you're not careful—messes with your lungs. Used to be irradiated, but it's safe to handle, now."

I frowned at this. Taris was an exploited world—like Coruscant—before Darth Malak leveled it. Anything radioactive would have been dug up long before, both for safety reasons and as a resource to be used. I bit the inside of my lip. Things like that don't just grow back.

"Doesn't call to mind anything I've ever handled," the miner said, hesitatingly taking the fragment from her and turning it over in his big hands. "Asked the General about it once, see if there was a better place to dig stuff up. Swamps aren't great for mining." And he's rather closer to the Empire than he'd like to be. "Said there wasn't—had to be here. Wouldn't say anything else. Guess he figured it was… better if we didn't know." Then, realizing what he'd said. "I, wait, I mean… really—that's it! That's all I know!"

"I believe you. What do you think, Jaesa?" Her Lordship asked, holding out her hand for the fragment the miner had taken from her.

"It sounds more prudent than usual: they don't know anything so someone like you can't make them talk," I answered, frowning at the fragment in my own hand.

"I take it you've made some kind of workup in case this was something new?"

Only found on Taris, huh?

"No ma'am—"

"I did…" a skinny girl said, holding up a hand nervously. "Thought it might come in useful… you know… in case it was found anywhere else. It's just my notes, though…"

"I'll have them, if you will. Jaesa, go with her."

I followed the girl as she retrieved a notebook from the dormitory, then walked her back to Her Lordship, who took the notebook. Her Lordship didn't open it, merely stuck the small article into a pouch on her belt and put the ore fragment—whatever it really was—in with it.

"Do you have any questions, Jaesa?" Her Lordship asked.

I considered, studying the miners. They seemed aware that their end was drawing near. "How long have you been here?"

"Month, eight weeks, tops. Gets kinda hard to keep track sometimes," the lead miner answered uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck.

"And the amount of ore you would produce in a day?" I could see Her Lordship nodding approval.

The miner gave me a figure which made little sense. "The log's in the computer, of course. Else…" he laughed nervously, "hard to get the paymaster to shell out without a good record. It's not locked—you can go look yourself… uh… m'lord…"

I tuned on my heel and examined the computer. It wasn't locked; they hadn't expected anyone to find them here.

"Jaesa, stream it to Quinn," Her Lordship commanded.

I punched in the Captain's frequency on my holocom.

" _Jaesa?_ " the Captain asked, surprised.

"I'm streaming you a parcel of data. Her Lordship wants you to hang onto it," I answered, keying a transfer which turned out would take some time.

" _I understand,_ " the Captain answered, nodding.

I severed the call, but left the stream open, to find Her Lordship still interrogating the miner. Tuning back, I began looking through the rest of the files I could access…

"My lord? I've found General Minst." To be honest, I was a little surprised how easy it was… surprised and unnerved. _Should_ it be that easy, or were they really that confident the wrong eyes couldn't find this information?

"Excellent. Make the necessary notes and we'll make it our next destination."

I obeyed, then rejoined her, handing over the datapad, which she scanned then put in the pouch on her belt. It didn't fit well, with everything now in there, but she managed.

I felt it through our bond, a pulse of wordless instruction— _kill them_ —a split second before Her Lordship jumped into action.

"What do you think it is?" I asked, once the miners lay dead. The little air bubbles of their lives seemed to fill sluggishly, as if the slow-fill of the massacred millions affected how the Force moved in regard to newer deaths. I wondered if this place had repopulated whether the gap would fill faster than it was at present.

"I don't know," Her Lordship answered. "But the fact that it's such a localized resource makes me curious."

"You're hoping the General might be more forthcoming?"

"He's the junior member. I don't expect he'll know much. Still, it doesn't hurt to ask. If there's no self-destruct sequence for this facility, in case it was ever compromised, we'll have Pierce arrange to send us a demolitions team. I want this place cratered. If the Republic tries to crawl back in, they'll have to start all over." She sounded so darkly decisive on this point that it surprised me. She didn't need details to know she wouldn't like whatever the Republic was up to.

I'd been with her long enough to know this wasn't a warning for me not to ask questions. "…wouldn't that be wasting a resource? If it's important to the Republic, it could be quite important to the Empire, too."

"Normally I would agree with you. But you heard what was said: this is the only world upon which this substance exists. That makes it exceptionally localized and our military is not unlike the Republic: they'll use it for whatever it's for as broadly as possible, forgetting that it will run out eventually—and faster than usual since it's _only_ found in one place. That leads to one of two scenarios: either the military collapses in on itself because it no longer has access… or it finds a way to synthesize it. As with the Dark Council, the military sometimes lacks foresight." It wasn't a criticism, simply a fact.

"And edge in a fight becomes a crutch—and when that crutch gives out, because relying on this becomes too easy… the Republic could sail back into us."

"Have you been studying galactic history as I suggested you ought?"

"Of course—your recommendations go a long way with me."

"There are patterns in the affairs of Sith and Jedi, of the entities analogous to the Empire and the Republic. Have you noted them?" she frowned at the main entryway to the complex.

I had to think about it—there's _a lot_ of history, after all. "I… one side pushes, then the other side pushes back?" It was only a guess, but apparently it was an obvious pattern.

"Yes. Best not to facilitate that pattern, if we can help it."

I nodded, looking at the rock in my hand. If it exists only here, then something must have happened—and only one big thing ever happened here, that anyone ever remembers. I frowned at the iridescence on the rock. Used to be irradiated, the miner said, but he didn't say it was radioactive itself…

"My lord…" I cut myself off, sensing them before I actually heard them. "We have company."

"So we do."

I moved to stand several feet from Her Lordship, but level with her, lightsaber out and ready to start or jump into the fight—whichever was needful. I was aware that Her Lordship had questions and intended to ask them, which called for some restraint.

The Republic troops came into the chamber with fairly due care—though I didn't think much of their general.

"Target sighted!" a high, nasal voice declared. "Attack pattern aught-seven-seven."

"Oh stars above," Her Lordship sneered.

I agreed. Seriously? What is this? Some kind of sport or game? And that _voice_! Something that makes him difficult to take seriously. Which, of course, prompted me to concentrate even more.

"Men, fan out! Aught-seven-seven! Be ready to engage!"

With that, they streamed in, clearly meaning to catch us in crossfire, heavily-armed, heavily armored troopers and one less-armored figure.

"Wait for the general's order!"

At the back of the fan strutted a man far too large for the voice he had. Platinum blonde, muscular and heavily armored (though without a helmet), I found the contrast between body and voice hilarious… and a little odd.

"You program your drones quite well, General," Her Lordship noted in that politely scathing way of hers.

Frellka scowled at her. He was older than I expected for 'the junior member.' _I_ expected some little squirt with a big mustache and bigger pretentions. "You'll find my elite troopers much more formidable than the guards and miners you massacred here, Sith," he answered icily. "I am General Elaxis Frellka, of the Republic Strategic High Command—"

"That is to say, he _was_ ," I giggled softly, but loudly enough to be heard. I couldn't see because of their helmets, but the giggling amusement over what was, to Her Lordship and me, a foregone conclusion unnerved them a little.

"—your incursion here violates the spirit of the Treaty of Coruscant. We have you dead to rights. Surrender."

"If I had a sense of humor I'd find you amusing," Her Lordship answered. I could feel her in the Force, coiling up like a spring being compressed.

"Do you think he'll squeak if we squeeze him?" I asked cheerfully. The unease we generated, to which I actually contributed, left me feeling… it was like anticipation (of the good kind), but a kind of sensation like I was growing lighter as I watched their anticipation (of the bad king) increase. Like I got stronger as their morale dropped.

Her Lordship chuckled. "I think he just might. He does seem the sort."

Squeak or squirt, it's all one to me.

Frellka was clearly used to being taken seriously. He was old enough to have been in the last war, so you'd think he'd know a Sith wouldn't be intimidated by him… or his irritating voice. "We have prisons that can stand up to Sith—perhaps you'll find them funny."

"But none anywhere to hand."

He talks too much. And she's going to let him talk. Which means I should listen up and pay attention.

"It's unfortunate you've discovered our plans. The wheels are already in motion. Our new technology will deliver armed superiority to the Republic, and I'm ready to give my life to defend—"

"I want the General alive, Jaesa," Her Lordship announced in an undertone. "Don't get too enthused."

I didn't take offense to the warning; it's just her way to make sure everyone's on the same page. I was ready, eager by this time, to sink my developing skills into real, dangerous opponents—living men, soldiers who had it in mind to make their job today about killing me. This wasn't those still house troopers on Alderaan, or the droids and their handlers.

This was the first battle in a war, though I doubt history books will recognize it. I know though, and that's what matters.

Her Lordship scattered the Republic troopers (whose crossfire turned out to be a bad idea if the target was standing in the midst of them) and pulled their attention away from me. I took the opportunity to cloak myself in obscurity, moving hurriedly to the back of the group.

I grabbed General Frellka through the Force and—feeling like I had more control over it than at any point in my life previously—threw him across the room, out of the way of the fighting and easy to keep track of. He hit the wall with an unpleasant lack of bounce.

My unexpected appearance where they hadn't expected me to be forced the Republic troopers to divide their attention.

It was clear the troopers might be elite, but between having their General thrown bodily across the room every time he looked ready to join the fray and with me popping in and out of view—visible only long enough to strike someone, skewer him like a martini olive—while Her Lordship pounded on them like a security force on a suspect's door, the fight went downhill for the Republic very quickly indeed.

"General Frellka. I have a few questions for you," Her Lordship began, pacing over him. "Jaesa. If you were to get this fine person's attention, how would you go about it?"

I raised a hand. I'd never tried a Force choke before, but my ease with the throws—that is to say, nonlethal and relatively non-damaging—left me feeling confident. I imagined it like a noose around his neck, tightening and tightening until it lifted him off the ground to dangle just out of reach of easing the pressure.

And then it hit me: I imagined _water_ , the water Her Lordship enjoined me to use as a visualization, producing a current, a strong fast current that wrapped around the neck of my victim, spinning so tightly and so close to the obstruction that it could wear away and into whatever was in its way…

"Very adroit," Her Lordship nodded.

I didn't answer, feeling fairly certain that if I stopped concentrating I'd drop him, and that would be embarrassing. It took focus, so I didn't crush his throat prematurely, or leave the grip too loose to get the point across. It was something, I decided, that had to be learned by feel.

"What is the name of this project you mentioned, the one that has to do with this?" Since it was just the three of us, she reached out through the Force. One of the lumps of ore flew from the floor where it had been scattered and into her hand.

She had to repeat the question several times and with several… strategic applications of pressure. Finally, she got one gasped word: Siantide.

As it turned out, Frellka knew little more than that.

"Drop him."

I was glad to do it. I'd begun to feel woozy, unused to maintaining something through use of the Force, and which required more delicacy than I was used to needing, for so long. I dropped him, shaking my hand and feeling odd, as though something heavy had been lifted from my mind.

Frellka didn't try to get up. In fact, his hand flew to his throat, he seemed to come back to himself, and he grimaced at us before biting down hard and taking a big breath of air. A second later he was frothing and convulsing.

"So he was serious," Her Lordship breathed, frowning at the corpse.

"Poison _tooth_?" I asked, regarding the messy corpse that was Frellka. "Isn't that a bit…"

"Effective," Her Lordship finished, overriding my answer of 'cliched.' "The War Trust in one place, suicide, apparently layers of people who know only just enough to get by… Siantide must be truly something."

"Are you concerned?" I asked as we turned back to the computer.

"I'm beginning to feel twinges of it, yes. It doesn't matter: whatever it is, we'll flatten it, starting with this facility."

As she worked at the terminal, I thought, ruminated, and came up with nothing. "My lord… if he had a poison gas tooth, why wait so long to use it?"

"A tooth like that requires a strong inhale—as you saw—to get the gas where it needs to be in order for it to act quickly and effectively. If it's not a proper dose, it's a slow and lingering death. Not a pleasant way to go, if one has to die," she answered. "Also simple spite: he deprived me of being able to say _I_ killed him. Not that it matters, but for some Sith," she shrugged.

I don't suppose it does, in the end. But a Sith understands spite, so I made a note of it.

 **Taris, Part VI**

We stopped long enough to sit somewhere relatively solid and choke down a ration bar. More than that was adhering to the Captain's insistence that—however humid we found the air, it was still _hot_ on Taris—we needed to pay attention to proper hydration. He made it sound like we'd forget easily; maybe that's true.

Still, the ration bars _made_ you want to drink lots of water.

"Ugh… these things are proverbially nasty but _wow_." It was nice to be able to bellyache about something without being given a stricture about it.

"Not even _Quinn_ enjoys them, and that man can eat almost anything," Her Lordship said, snickering softly. "Can and will," she added, more to herself than to me, continuing to smirk as she did so.

"Are we discussing the same Captain Quinn?" I asked, blinking.

Her Lordship nodded. "The man has a cast-iron stomach, _believe_ me. He might complain about the locale but _never_ about what he's eating."

I found myself laughing at this strangely personal view of the ever-so-proper Captain. She makes him sound like a teenage boy: putting away the groceries (as the Alderaanian slang went) without paying much attention to them past their presence and consumption.

Her Lordship's holocom buzzed softly. On a world like Taris, or a mission requiring a degree of stealth, she always sets it up for a buzz rather than a chime. She wiped her amusement off her face before answering it. "Lieutenant?"

" _M'lord_ ," Pierce said tersely. " _Needed to tap you_."

"That sounds ominous." So was the expression that clouded her face.

" _General Durant is on the move._ "

Her Lordship's holocom blinked that she had another call, but it immediately stopped.

" _Odds are he's fortifying his position._ "

My holocom went off a second later. "Captain?"

"Carry on, Pierce," she said, when Pierce paused to allow her to deal with whatever the distraction was.

 _One thing at a time_ , rippled across our bond.

"A moment, Captain. She's on with Pierce—apparently there's a problem."

" _I've become aware, my lord,_ " the Captain answered, looking irritated and practically bristling, but he held his tongue.

" _Black Ops buddies I sent scouting made contact. They_ _could_ _have discreetly followed the battalion to find the general._ "

" _Could_ have…" Her Lordship frowned. "A moment, Lieutenant. Captain," Her Lordship turned to regard the Captain on my holocom. "Does this have to do with finding General Durant?"

" _I'm afraid so, my lord. Moff Hurdenn seems to have…_ _anticipated_ _your directives_ ," the Captain announced with the delicate inflection that suggested something smelly being held under his nose.

I had to grin. The Captain is a much more competent candidate for Moff than Hurdenn. I can only suppose Hurdenn has connections of some kind. He's totally useless as far as I can tell.

" _He's not just_ _anticipating directives_ ," Pierce growled irritably. " _He's grounded me and the boys and sent in a whole damn platoon. He's killing our chances._ "

That Moff can move fast when he wants to. I'm surprised, though, that he doesn't understand the benefit of attacking _after_ Durant's men reach him.

"Captain?"

" _When the action came to my attention, I did attempt to speak with the Moff. His aide claims he is_ _indisposed_ _. I've had no luck getting through to him._ " The Captain's typical sneer for idiocy in superiors was redolent in every word. If there's one thing he hates, it's inefficiency, _especially_ in people who are supposed to be in charge. He's the type to line Moff Hurdenn and his ilk up against a wall.

"Summon Hurdenn into this conversation. Tell Hurdenn's aide to convey the following in my name: if I have to slog my way back to base I will be seriously annoyed; if General Minst slips through my fingers because I had to come back to the garrison to deal with him I will be truly angry; and tell him that if Durant gets away as well, he should make sure his affairs are in order. And _you_ may prepare for a temporary promotion. Embellish as you see fit. When you have Hurdenn, call me back. I'll patch you into this conversation."

The Captain didn't exactly smile—he unscrews that and leaves it on the dresser when he gets dressed in the mornings—but he came close.

He let Her Lordship's ire wash over him, as it wasn't leveled in his direction. I saw it only because I'd been living with him: more than anything, he found this rather dramatic set of statements amusing… and unless I was mistaken he had an audience of some kind, discreet or otherwise. " _It shall be done immediately, my lord._ "

"Pierce, how likely is it Hurdenn will do something stupid like this again if not _strongly_ censured?" Her Lordship asked.

" _Pretty. Wants to get in good with you. Thinks it'll help him get off Taris. Tells you everything right there,_ " Pierce finished off-handedly, his face twisting into unmitigated disgust.

"Indeed it does." Her Lordship frowned.

She fell into silent seething and Pierce let her brood uninterrupted.

Finally, her holocom buzzed and she keyed the caller into the conversation. "Ah, Moff Hurdenn," Her Lordship purred. "I see my captain was _finally_ able to get through to you."

Hurdenn cleared his throat. " _My lord—I can see your Captain has already hailed you. I was hoping to do it myself._ "

"As has Lieutenant Pierce. It seems the only person _not_ reporting to me on this matter is you," Her Lordship answered sourly.

" _Ah… yes. Well, I'd hoped it would be a pleasant surprise. Thanks to_ _me_ _, General Durant's personal battalion will not be joining him… wherever he is,_ " the Moff sniffed.

"My hunt for the War Trust is complex, Hurdenn." The dropping of his rank combined with the increasing venom in her voice gave Hurdenn a pretty clear picture of how deep in _poodoo_ he was.

It's well-known that non-Sensitives (and other Sith, depending on those involved) should step carefully while working with a Sith. While Her Lordship is must more balanced than most, more cold-blooded and thorough, she can use the common perception as a lever without having to lower herself to actually displaying it.

"You should know—or at least have guessed—that such 'surprises' in my undertakings are _far_ from pleasant."

"… _I see…_ " Hurdenn answered, trying not to sound cowed and not entirely succeeding.

"In future, you," she actually pointed a finger at Hurdenn's image to emphasize her point, " _will_ clear _all_ actions involving _my_ affairs with Captain Quinn. I expect you to defer to his judgment."

She glared at him until Hurdenn did the only thing he could do: he straightened his posture, put on his best mask of impassivity (which hung crooked, if you ask me) and bowed at the waist. " _Of course, my lord. This is, of course, your operation. You have my deepest apologies._ "

"Thank you, Moff. Now, call your attack off, withdraw your men, let Pierce and his comrades do their jobs." She immediately softened her tone, leaving no audience that might be present in any doubt who ought to be consulted and deferred to. "Quinn, I leave things in your capable hands."

From here on in, Hurdenn gets carbon copies when the Captain had a moment to pass them along—which, of course, he would do in a timely manner, being a good soldier like he is.

The Captain inclined his head. " _As you wish, my lord. The Moff is giving the recall order now._ "

"Pierce, is there anything else that needs attending?" she asked, her tone less menacing, but still not clear of residual annoyance.

" _No, m'lord. That should put us back on track. We'll get something on Durant_. _I swear it._ "

"Then I leave the matter in your hands, Lieutenant."

Pierce severed the call.

"Is there anything else, Captain?"

" _Darth Baras has called to check in on your progress. I expect he'll do so periodically as this is a rather important mission,_ " the Captain answered blandly. " _He hasn't asked for you specifically, merely for general updates. Those I've given him appear to be satisfactory._ "

Her Lordship hummed that she heard this. I don't think it pleased her, but having met Baras I don't think anyone was surprised he was already demanding updates. "If he calls back you may tell him that General Frellka is dead and his immediate operations ceased. We will need to confer, you and I, when I return."

She didn't say why and the Captain naturally didn't ask. " _I'm at your service, my lord._ "

She said nothing teasing, nor did it show on her face—she had an audience, after all, and she doesn't tease the Captain too much when there's an audience—but it rippled in her aura that she would have liked to.

…wait a moment… was this… the Captain being _impish_? Making a comment he knows would normally provoke her to tease in front of an audience because he knows she won't compromise his ability to lead? She'd have to be pretty blatant, and it would come across as just heavy-handed and make him look like a toy. She'd _never_ do that to him, which just goes to show she entertains a real fondness for the man.

The faint smile I caught playing around the corners of his mouth said he knew all of this _quite_ well. He always seems to play her games when there's serious distance between them—usually via holo.

Her Lordship severed the call, then chuckled. "I swear that man's sense of humor improves every day. It's _marvelous_."

"In spite of Imperial rations," I noted, glancing at her unfinished bar.

"In spite of. Ugh, I'm not eating the rest of this. I'll see if there's any kind of alterative once we're back aboard ship." She stood up and threw the leftovers into the swamps.

Thank goodness. The ration-rations aren't so bad, but these ration _bars_ … "They say beings who commune deeply enough with the Force can sustain themselves by it, combating hunger, thirst, even a lack of air," I noted cheerfully as she took a long drink from her hydration unit.

I quickly followed suit, realizing only then just how _thirsty_ I really was.

"Not having to eat and not having to breathe would be a _vast_ improvements over current conditions," Her Lordship sighed. "Let's go find Minst."

And hope Hurdenn has merely complicated matters and not utterly ruined this mission.

Idiot.

 **Taris, Part VII**

"I don't like this," Her Lordship growled softly as we entered the bunker where General Minst was supposed to be.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," I agreed, looking around the complex. It was empty, but there were signs to indicate it had been evacuated recently. "It shouldn't be this empty."

The place seemed to brood, like a carnivorous plant that so slowly traps and devours some unfortunate insect.

Her Lordship stopped, lifting a hand as though feeling for something. She immediately turned. "Do you sense them?" she asked as she began walking.

I reached out through the Force, found that I _did_ feel something—something that seemed anomalous in this empty space.

"Kill the guards, but leave Minst alive."

Minst was easy to recognize: Rodians might all look alike, but you don't see many of them in the same place in the wider galaxy.

I half-closed my eyes, swathing myself in obscurity, then broke off at a jog, the better to loop around the enemy and take them from behind. Through our bond, I sensed her pleasure at seeing such an adroit use of power… and maybe she was a smidge impressed I'd gotten so far with it so quickly.

I had to clamp down on my enthusiasm at this, lest I screw up and undo the approval I'd garnered.

"General Minst," Her Lordship announced, one lightsaber ignited in her hand, the other quiescent.

Through our bond rippled an impression: _start when you're ready_.

The nasty little Rodian never got the opportunity to get past raising his voice at Her Lordship before I gave him a big Force push that sent him sprawling almost at her feet before pivoting smoothly into action. Two of his six guards were dead before they realized what had happened. Her Lordship (using Minst as a springboard for her favorite Force lunge) was in their midst a second later and felled three more.

I got the last one by neatly snapping her neck.

"Well, well, aren't you the effective little killer? I'm glad to see you've been taking your training seriously," Her Lordship declared, turning back to the winded and twitching General.

I found myself a little surprised by my own effectiveness. I just kind of jumped in there… I guess having practiced so long and so dedicatedly with Her Lordship or the training droids has improved me beyond what I expected. My faith in my abilities jumped a notch as I glanced at the three corpses who were my handiwork. I'm not practiced with snapping a neck through the Force, but I'd done it and done it easily. Maybe there was something to Her Lordship's assertion that—

Suddenly, I held up a hand, brushing her elbow. "My lord… this… isn't the General. He doesn't… I mean for a minute I…" I looked over at her. "I just _know_." It was unnerving in the extreme.

"Possibly such a steady draw on the Force has given you a few moments of instinctive use of your gift," Her Lordship said after a moment's thought. "Let's see, though. Get up, whoever you are."

There was no arguing with her. " _Whoa, whoa, whoa_!" the Rodian babbled, pushing himself to his knees. " _W-wow…_ " His antennae twitched with anxiety as he looked at our handiwork. " _You killed them all…_ "

Definitely not a General. Too slow on the uptake. Too surprised at Sith effectiveness.

" _Uh… I am General—_ "

Her Lordship brought her lightsaber across his neck in one easy motion, the blade a breath away from cutting into him. "Are you quite certain about that? My apprentice here is rarely wrong when she volunteers such insights."

I was glad to volunteer… and I sensed that while she had no intention of ever asking me to use my gift she wouldn't prevent or discourage me from doing so on my own initiative. The thing was that it would, hopefully, always be at my discretion.

Since I could see she found the idea of asking repellant, I re-resolved myself that she would never have to.

" _Alright, alright! You're right! I'm not General Minst!_ " the Rodian babbled.

"Tell me something I don't know, worm," Her Lordship growled. "Your Republic isn't worth dying for."

I was with her: this assault was too easy. They knew we were coming. There's got to be more to this.

" _General Minst's armed the reactor to blow!_ " the Rodian squealed. " _He put the self-destruct sequence on a silent countdown! Listen!_ " He fumbled in his pocket and produced a datapad with a filmstrip on it. After a moment's fiddling…

"Vault destruct sequence in five minutes," a cool, nondescript male voice announced.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins so fast it was like an electrical shock. You can't _fight_ a reactor explosion.

"Where is he?" Her Lordship demanded, dragging the Rodian to his feet by the shirt before grabbing one of his antennae and twisting it viciously. Her grip must have been like durasteel, because for all his wriggling and efforts to disengage it, he had absolutely no luck. She merely twisted harder. "These come off, you know. Where's Minst?"

" _Ow! Ow-ow-ow-ow! General Minst and his advisor took cover in the reactor's fallout vault!_ " the Rodian howled, still trying to wriggle free of Her Lordship. " _It's the only place that'll withstand the self-destruct sequence!_ "

"You General left you here to die. Where is the vault?" Her Lordship demanded.

" _That way! You'll need this datastrip… it's got the passcode!_ "

"Come on!" Her Lordship let go of his antennae and pivoted, taking his head off in a clean strike. She was at a flat out run in the direction the Rodian indicated before the two pieces of him hit the ground.

I followed at a near sprint, heart pounding so bad it rocked my hands.

"Cover us," she snapped, positioning herself at the terminal and beginning to enter the unlock sequence. "Just in case," she added in an undertone.

I found it highly unlikely the General would have left more than his little rearguard forlorn hope here when the place had been so clearly abandoned—I certainly didn't sense anyone when I reached out through the Force—but one never knows with that sort. I found it unlikely the Rodian would have been able to get to the vault and get it open once the General left him to face the Sith.

It's just that the Rodian was the only one who didn't know that. Well, maybe the men with him.

"In!" Her Lordship grabbed the back of my vest at the neck and yanked, propelling me into the vault before following herself. She located and palmed the panel to seal it before she stopped stumbling backwards. The door hissed closed and a few silent seconds passed before the ground beneath our feet began to rock.

" _You idiot!_ " a Rodian voice screamed.

We both turned, and I was aware just how close I'd come to dying at the hands of an enemy I couldn't actually fight. It was… sobering… to say the least.

" _You could have killed us all!_ "

Her Lordship's anger—mixed with fear, so maybe she felt the same way I did about being killed by something she couldn't kill right back—was almost palpable. Shouting at her was a poor decision on General Minst's part.

With a truly ugly expression, Her Lordship raised a hand, the General's hands leaping to his throat.

I hurried to follow her lead, the aide only just succeeding in brushing his fingers against his pistol before he, too, found himself caught with an invisible grip around his throat.

"Siantide," Her Lordship growled, addressing the word and the question that followed to both men. "Where does it come from?"

It took a few moments before we wriggled it out of the aide. "It's… the leftovers of… the b-bombardment…" he choked, despite my easing my grip enough to let him speak but not enough to let him get a good breath. I remembered General Frellka and didn't trust these high-ranking officers on this high-security project not to have followed his example.

" _Shut up! The Sith doesn't need to—ack!_ " Her Lordship tightened her grip on the General's throat.

"Leftovers?" Her Lordship asked. Then, slowly, "…you mean the _biological_ leftovers?"

The aide simply nodded.

"Wait… this fuel source is made of _people_?" I demanded.

"That's why you _only_ find it on Taris," Her Lordship answered grimly, sounding more as though her suspicions were… not confirmed, but this definitely didn't come as a genuine surprise to her. It's the real reason why she didn't want the military finding out more about Siantide than they can help: they might be tempted to see if the stuff can be duplicated on a shorter timescale.

Which tells me how all this plays out: she's going to erase Siantide altogether. No one will be able to use anything she can get her hands on. The bits the Captain has are probably useless without the rest. Hopefully, if this is so secret and so carefully-guarded… no one will have backups off-world. Hopefully everything will be here. The Republic's drive to keep it out of Sith hands, to destroy the project from the bottom up so she couldn't have it, would end up doing most of her job for her.

I don't think they can imagine a Sith who would _want_ Siantide, with all its short-term benefits, to stay out of her military's hands.

And I don't imagine even the Republic would be above trying to replicate it on a short-term scale; 'accidents' happen. Sometimes they're even 'happy accidents.'

A few more questions revealed that General Minst knew only marginally more than General Frellka. The head of this project was taking no chances: Her Lordship would have to chew her way through the entire power structure before she could get enough information to actually do something with, and the guy in charge seemed to think she could be stopped before she could do anything with that information.

There was nothing we could do: we waited for the self-destruct—which seemed a ridiculously thorough one—to finish. Then we had to wait for the facility to settle. We must have been there for hours just _waiting_ for everything to be safe.

After two failed tries to contact the Captain, we meditated. That was about all there was to do.

Finally, the vault's computer announced that it was safe to return to the outside world.

The first thing Her Lordship did once she was out of the vault was to call the Captain.

" _My lord_!" For a moment the Captain looked so unguardedly relieved that I thought he might have kissed her if he could have. " _We recorded a reactor overload in your_ —"

"Minst activated the reactor's self-destruct. We weathered the explosion in the fallout vault," Her Lordship answered soothingly. "The vault interfered with communications."

Ah, that's why he's so worried. She usually calls after a big explosion so he knows she wasn't in it.

"Has there been any word on Durant?"

The Captain's hesitation before falling back on business to cope with stress was only a few fractions of a second. But, as with Her Lordship, for a decisive personality like his those nanoseconds were like hours. She really scared him this time, and I thought that, had he been able to see me, he might have given me a look suggesting he wished Her Lordship would imitate Nomen Karr a little more often and leave me safely aboard ship so he could stay with her.

I found myself not feeling particularly insulted. It was a quite a romantic gesture on his part, after all. And the Captain isn't a man given to romantic gestures… as far as I can tell. He knows he can't _protect_ her, but he _can_ patch her up after an engagement. And since if you want something done right, do it yourself…

…a _very_ romantic gesture indeed.

" _Yes… yes, my lord. Pierce and his men have been in the field following the battalion Moff Hurdenn disarranged. They're still at it, from what I understand. I suspect he'll contact you before he contacts headquarters. In the meantime, you should come back to the garrison to resupply._ "

For the Captain that's ridiculously obvious… well, to those who are familiar with him. I found myself trying not to smile at this relative sweetness: he wants to see her, needs to be sure she's alright.

"And excellent proposition, Captain," Her Lordship allowed. "We'll make our way back—unless Pierce has a destination for us."

" _Thank you, my lord._ " He said it softly, so obviously he wasn't alone but no one there was close enough to hear him.

Her Lordship hung up, frowning at the holocom. "I hope Pierce needs some time."

For her sake, I hope so too. The Captain's resistance to her attentions might just be beginning to crack.


	25. Chapter 25

**Taris, Part VIII**

Pierce still hadn't made contact by the time Her Lordship and I reached the garrison. The lake smelled worse than ever for my having had time to forget how nasty it was and get used to the 'clean' part of the swamps. It made my eyes water and clogged up my nose to the point that I would have been so glad to get _back_ into the swamps of the wider world.

The Captain was alone in the alcove we'd left him in, frowning tersely at a holomap of the region. He looked up when he caught movement and his brows unknotted a little. His blue eyes swept Her Lordship carefully for injuries or signs thereof. Finding none, he checked me (with much less interest). "I'm glad to see you well, my lord," he declared demurely.

Her Lordship smiled and padded up, leaning on the holomap, close enough that one could accuse her of crowding. "Would you like to check to be certain?"

For a minute, I thought he might take her up on that—that is, to appropriate a room in the medbay for a very thorough check, for the sake of _his_ nerves and wellbeing more than hers. However, on balance, he simply unclipped the med-scanner he wore everywhere he went and turned it on. "You seem to be in the pink of health, my lord," he reported simply.

"Are you sure? Redheads don't really do pink."

"For someone who enjoys defying convention, I don't think I need to reword my statement in order to maintain accuracy," the Captain answered in his primmest of proper tones.

I could almost hear Her Lordship pout at him—which she could do with impunity, should she so choose, since anyone coming in would only see her back.

"Apropos to health and wellness… those ration bars are disgusting," Her Lordship announced. "When this is over, we should really look into something less objectionable."

The Captain's expression twitched. She must have been giving him puppy eyes, which on her are probably more of an enticement than a plea, but his tone was perfectly starched and ironed when he spoke. "There may be an alternative among Bith. Ironically, I believe it is pink."

"They aren't round, are they?" Her Lordship asked, not quite edgily enough to be serious.

"Why should the shape matter, my lord?"

"You wouldn't want me not getting _square_ meals, would you?"

It was a dumb joke and made me snort… but this is Her Lordship.

When the Captain spoke, he sounded utterly serious… and yet there was something I couldn't quite put my finger on that told me he was joking, and amused/relieved by her teasing. "My lord, do you feel dizzy or lightheaded? I had some concerns about the vaccines…"

Once they stop itching, they're not so bad.

"I think the swamps might be working on my mental function. Or maybe it _is_ the vaccines. Perhaps I'm coming over faint. Can I count on you to catch me if I swoon?" she asked wickedly.

I nearly laughed at this. Faint? Her? No way. Not even on her worst day. Now, a little theatrical swooning if he agreed to catch her? Oh, yes.

When the Captain spoke, I had trouble hearing him. "You're hardly a Dromund Kaas conservatory flower, my lord. More like a Korriban cactus."

I clamped a hand over my mouth to forcibly smother my giggles.

Ignoring me, "…but… I suppose it doesn't hurt to check."

Wow. She got around him, didn't she?

"Lead the way."

I stepped to the side, chin bowed so my hair—stringy and sweaty as it was—would hide some of my expression.

…I also followed after them, and waited outside the curtained alcove in the medbay. I'll admit… as often as I found them exceptionally embarrassing, it was a fascinating… can I call it a courtship?... to observe.

"Were you really so very worried?" Her Lordship asked, almost too quietly to hear.

A pause. "It was a _nuclear explosion_ ," the Captain answered censoriously. "I worried after five minutes."

Five minutes being the window during which she usually calls to confirm she's out of danger.

"I'm fine, Quinn. Not a scratch, not even a chipped fingernail."

Another silence, this one strained and full of tension.

"You can you know. I won't complain," Her Lordship breathed.

"My lord, we've discussed this before," the Captain answered… but it seemed the kind of answer one gives that is logically right but personally painful to give.

"No. We discussed what-ifs—or, rather, you aired your very logical concerns," Her Lordship responded, also lowering her tone. "Take a taste. See if it's a poison worth picking. Otherwise, you know you need only say 'no.'"

I could almost feel the tension across my skin, to the point I rolled my shoulders as if that would help ease it. I even held my breath to hear his answer. Personally, I don't see why he's being so stubborn; he wants her, and it's not a heat-of-the-moment fling thing. I don't believe he's thinking about his career, or the fact that she's an heiress, or anything shallow like that. He can't possibly be unaware that Her Lordship is _so_ picky about men… and she's never looked twice at any of the ones I've seen her encounter.

When it comes to male companionship, she has eyes only for him.

I resisted the urge to try to _look_ into him without actually being able to see him. My personal curiosity isn't enough of a reason when it comes to Her Lordship's crew. And, knowing me, if I knew something useful, I'd want to volunteer it and that sort of help wouldn't please Her Lordship at all.

It wasn't a passionate novel-worthy kiss. It really did sound like what she'd called it: ' _take a taste, see if it's a poison worth picking_.' The sounds were certainly soft, delicate… and strangely, made me uncomfortable.

She didn't prompt him for an answer, but I could feel fluttery tremors of pleasure through our bond—which I hastily tried to close off.

"Hella, I—"

Her Lordship's holocom went off. "Damn it, Pierce," she snarled viciously. A soft sound, as if she'd kissed Captain's cheek, an even softer sound, like a hand sliding down a tunic sleeve, then, "Lieutenant." She didn't _quite_ keep the note of sour disappointment out of her tone.

" _Got news, m'lord. Tracked Durant's battalion. Led my troopers on a recon run—we found his hideout._ "

"Excellent," Her Lordship announced, pushing aside the curtain that obscured the alcove she and the Captain had retreated to.

Without a word, the Captain deftly and decorously extracted her from her hydration pack, then turned to me and motioned me to give mine over. That done, he was off, clearly intending to see to the resupply himself, since the timetable had moved up. His expression was set in determined lines… but the little indications, as well as the roil of his aura through the Force, proved he was a man with a lot on his mind just now and most of that revolved around a certain redhead.

The redhead herself, _not_ her campaign.

He's already hers and he knows it. What's the hang-up?

" _He's got a full battalion guarding the compound. They're establishing a perimeter of defenses around the General. Looks like they're expecting you. Taking you pretty seriously, too._ "

"I'm flattered. Send me the coordinates."

I shifted from foot to foot. As I'd listened to Her Lordship and the Captain flirting (or whatever it is they do) I'd gradually started to become aware that I was tired. Sleep was scant—combat naps, Her Lordship had called them, savoring the term as though it wasn't one she often got to use but of which she liked the sound. Part of me wondered how hopped up on stims the Captain was—because if she was in the field and not sleeping, he wasn't either.

I'll bet he's on ration bars, too. Like us.

" _Coordinates sent. My team and I were able to slip past the perimeter before they got the systems online. We'll watch and wait. Comm you if anything changes,_ " Pierce announced.

"Be careful and keep your heads down," Her Lordship declared, before hanging up.

"Do you think they can remain undetected until we get there?" I asked, frowning.

"I don't know. If Durant's men are watchful… probably not. We've got some serious ground to cover."

We waited a few moments for the Captain to return, the hydration packs refilled, a veritable bouquet of ration bars in his other hand. He handed the ration bars over first—which made Her Lordship grimace—then handed me my hydration pack… and helped slip her back into hers.

Her Lordship stepped in close and whispered in his ear, "Get something to eat Quinn, and get some rest."

"If it's all the same to you, my lord—"

"But it isn't." she lay one hand on his arm… which made me realize how infrequently she's the one to touch him—usually she lets him initiate, like she doesn't want to push a questionable advantage. "Look after yourself… please." Her fingers closed in a gentle squeeze that made his aura lurch.

I knew he'd do exactly as she'd instructed, even without the 'please.' Saying please was just one more reason he'd end up not refusing; such courtesies aren't expected from Sith. They give orders; they don't make requests—real requests.

I suppose could see his reasoning: we're up and awake and working hard, so why shouldn't he be? But I was with Her Lordship. No need for him to grind himself down. And I don't doubt we'll need him fit and functional. Mental fatigue is harder to deal with than physical fatigue, and she tends to rely on him for his mental attributes.

The Captain sighed, and that seemed to be the only answer he was going to give.

It satisfied Her Lordship, though. She withdrew her hand, inclined her head politely, and headed for the main entrance to the garrison.

 **Taris, Part IX**

I'd never seen Her Lordship seem truly pushed before, but the race to get to General Durant—where Pierce's team was pinned, spotted by an unlucky something or other—definitely pushed her. We covered serious ground in a scant amount of time, all the while aware that the high probability was that Pierce's team, down to the last man, would be dead long before we got there.

It took even longer to respond because we had to crack the outer security. They weren't up to stopping Her Lordship, and I felt—to my joy—that I held my own in the fighting. Unfortunately, they were enough to slow us down.

In the end, Pierce surprised us both.

He might have been was the last man standing—and even then 'standing' was just metaphorical—but he was alive. It was all too clear he was the only one, for as we entered we found him sitting beside a bloody corpse, one arm over Chase's shoulders and looking thoroughly grim.

He released Chase, who slumped bonelessly to one side when Her Lordship and I appeared at the end of the hall. He endeavored to rise, but wincingly found himself unable.

"Jaesa."

I'd have done it without Her Lordship's prompting—Pierce wasn't going anywhere under his own steam in the condition he was in—and I needed the practice. I knelt at his shoulder, frowning at all the burns, kolto-patches, and bruises. A nasty pink, raised mark showed where he'd been dosing himself with stims, adrenals or kolto shots—because obviously he couldn't just dose himself through his armor.

"You're lucky you're such a big man." He had fine tremors that were either suppressed pain or the result of chemical enhancement—I couldn't tell which. The smell of blood clung to him, though I was sure some of it wasn't his own.

"We need to get him mobile. Do _not_ brush her off," Her Lordship said simply, pointing with an unignited lightsaber to Pierce who looked ready to do just that. He was tough and proud… but he subsided under Her Lordship's most austere look.

I was never a very good healer, but it's better to do something than nothing… although to do something I'd have to figure out where the worst of it is.

"Report," she commanded, taking a knee.

Pierce endeavored to sit up straighter, but I whacked him on the breastplate. "Stop squirming." It all looked bad…

I _looked_ at him, at the very bottom of his heart and found where _his_ concern was greatest and began there. It was pretty bad, but wasn't gushing. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. Here we go…

"Used all my ammunition and I'm down to my last med-pack… but the job's done… Durant's battalion is down." His expression tightened, darkened. "Rest of my company's* down, too."

Her Lordship's mouth went thin as she surveyed the carnage, now that she was sure Pierce wouldn't be keeling over on her.

It was an impressive body count, although I was a bit fuzzy on numbers. We'd passed more than a few corpses in the corridors and more than that lay scattered about the spot where Pierce's company—or what was left of it—made its final stand.

"Never seen men stare death in the face and fight more bravely," Pierce appended, his expression darkening. No doubt if he could rise and go he'd have insisted on following Her Lordship to the end.

I think she might have let him… _if_ he'd been in any reasonable condition.

"Then let us exact reparations from the Republic," Her Lordship said grimly.

I could tell that the number of dead displeased her, but she wrote it off as something necessary and something that couldn't be helped—she was simply not used to having units, companies, squadrons at her command. Thus, I'm sure the death toll seemed higher to her than it actually was—relatively speaking. I don't mean to imply that the losses weren't heavy.

"Are you able to leave under your own steam?" Her Lordship asked.

Pierce glanced at me and I nodded permission to try to rise. He managed, though it was clear he was still in a great deal of pain. I reached into my belt, produced a kolto shot, and stuck it into the other side of his neck without warning.

Pierce yelped and nearly caught me with a flailing hand, shocked by the sudden sting.

"Damn it!" he barked. "I'm not a dartboard!"

I simply shrugged.

"Give me your holocom." Pierce handed it to Her Lordship. "Here are the coordinates for the speeders Jaesa and I took," Her Lordship said briskly, plugging in the numbers. "Take one and head back to the garrison—or to the nearest Imperial asset and then to the garrison. Get yourself patched up; I have the presentiment we'll be needing you again, soon."

Pierce nodded, looking stoically fortified by the assurance that he was not out of the game. "Yes, m'lord."

"It would not go amiss if you were to inform the— _my_ —Captain that a pickup would be appreciated."

Pierce nodded again… but I could tell interacting with the Captain more than absolutely necessary was an unpleasant prospect. I suppose I could see why. Pierce is a man of action and hates being in-garrison. The Captain functions equally well fighting in the field or running operations from a headquarters. So far, Pierce has only seen the administrator and doubts the Captain's field-worthiness.

I've never seen the Captain's field-worthiness, but Her Lordship won't keep anyone who can't function in the field. It's just that Her Lordship likes her group small and mobile, that she uses the tasks set for her to train me, and that she feels more comfortable with the Captain serving an eye in the sky type position.

"General Durant and his guards have retreated further into the compound." Pierce got his feet fully under him and saluted—it lacked a bit of crispness and the motion obviously caused him pain, but he bore it stoically. "Proud I ushered you to the door."

"I'll be disappointed if you die, Pierce," Her Lordship announced, eyeing him top to toe.

Pierce gave her a teeth-bared grin that said more than words ever could. With this, he made his way off.

"Now, it's time for us to do our job," Her Lordship announced as she stepped carefully over the dead. "They're cornered, so they'll fight the more fiercely. And they've had time to prepare." She ignited her lightsabers and prowled forward, ready for the fight whenever it should break out.

"We should be careful," I agreed, "but I've been disappointed by the Republic's forces thus far."

"As well you should. Does anything occur to you about Frellka and Minst?"

I considered this, then shook my head. "They seemed most out of their depth."

"Indeed. Which tells you what?"

I had to think even harder. "…that this is important enough to take them out of their usual sphere of ability?"

This time, she did not correct me for making it a question. "Quite."

"Which means that at least one of the remaining generals is field-competent. Why not throw them at us first?"

"And leave Siantide in the hands of Minst and Frellka?" Her Lordship chuckled. "I rather wish they had."

I had to chuckle too, a little ruefully when she phrased things like _that_. I don't know that I'd have trusted Minst or Frellka—or both together—with a potato peeler, let alone something like Siantide. They must be offering provisional support.

 **Taris, Part X**

General Durant was a little more what I expected from a general, visually speaking. Armor that had seen combat, a sort of readiness that seemed steady and even—the kind of thing that would keep his troops from panicking.

This time, I thought to check that I really was dealing with General Durant and not some flunky masquerading. The Rodian general's little stunt left me feeling highly suspicious—a good trait to have, I suppose.

"General Durant," Her Lordship announced.

"Yes, my lord," I responded in an undertone, knowing that she probably felt more suspicious than usual after Minst's trick.

"You're too late, Sith," the General answered in a low, placid tone—too placid, really, for someone in his position. It's like he's not taking this seriously, which tells me that Siantide is further along than I thought it was. Which means… it's probably in or just past the testing phase. "Siantide is a success." He produced a small blaster, which looked very new, indeed. "We've stabilized the Siantide cells."

"Have you indeed?" Her Lordship asked, almost conversationally… but with a condescending undertone.

"Indeed. And now the Republic has a new power source, one that will give us advantage in the coming war."

At least he was sensible enough to know it was coming.

"They can't possibly be that powerful," Her Lordship answered.

"You have no idea."

"Then give me one. Humor me, General," Her Lordship clipped a lightsaber to her belt. "Let me see what the Empire's in for." She wiggled her fingers as if inviting him to throw a ball to her.

"Gladly—everyone. Attack."

This time Her Lordship did not jump into the fray, she merely raised a hand, deflected the first bolt with it… and hissed in pain. She didn't stop to look at the damage, but she didn't go for her other weapon, either. She simply deflected bolts for a few moments (with her lightsaber this time), giving me opportunity to disappear.

Although deflected, when doing it with one's hands there's still a risk of getting burned. That Her Lordship fell victim to this risk was unsettling… and it showed that the bolts really more powerful than usual.

Durant was better at setting up a crossfire kill zone, for he and his men kept Her Lordship hopping—or maybe she was drawing it out, mentally recording information while she waited for me to bring down the General—bring him down, not kill him. He can always be killed later… assuming he doesn't commit suicide rather than fall into enemy hands, and there are too many soldiers here to take the time to subdue him properly…

…but the shooting gallery Her Lordship had begun to make headway with was still impressive.

I took a deep breath, clipping my lightsaber to my belt and breaking cover with an explosion of lightning, fueled by the anger at people dumb enough lose track of a Sith and not wonder where she went, and anger that they'd managed to hold Her Lordship off—in fact or just in appearance, it didn't matter—so well.

The wide net caught more than a few of the soldiers in it, and was strong enough to prevent their reacting as they writhed and shuddered, dropping like flies.

Her Lordship, freed of the extensive barrage of weapon fire, was in the midst of the enemy a second later, lightsaber humming as she proceeded almost as efficiently with one weapon as she did with two.

The close-quarters combat put the soldiers at a significant disadvantage, caught as they were between Her Lordship and me, unable to shoot freely without moving and at risk of shooting—possibly killing—one of their own comrades.

That's the problem when a shooting gallery gets disarranged: their staying fire has a chance to do damage to their own side. I made a note of this for future reference: don't use a fan formation to fight an incursion if there's only one way for the enemy to come.

General Durant was dead by the time the fighting ended. He didn't use the tooth however, if he even had one: he simply got in Her Lordship's way—throwing himself on her lightsaber, in a manner of speaking—rather than risk capture. Apparently he had an inkling that was what she wanted. He could always be killed later, but alive he was _such_ a useful resource.

"That _bastard_ ," Her Lordship swore, clipping her lightsaber to her belt and peeling off her left fingerless glove, now with a hole in it, to better examine the burn.

I joined her, found the flesh oozing blood and weeping copiously. I wanted to ask her why she'd felt it necessary to show off like that, but stopped. It's not _like_ Her Lordship to show off.

"Well, at least we know he was telling the truth and not exaggerating," she continued scowling at her hand, eyes narrowed in concentration. "Those bolts _were_ stronger than usual."

Even as I watched, the skin slowly began to knit together, the blood ceasing to bead up. She shook her hand, but contented herself only with stopping the bleeding. The weeping was attended to by a kolto patch, which fit badly and would probably need to be replaced by the time we either quit for the evening or returned to the nearest camp.

She pulled her glove back on in a businesslike fashion. "Come on. Let's head back to the garrison and hope something on General Ferraire has been turned up," Her Lordship sighed.

"My lord… pardon me if it's obvious but _why_ risk injury like that?" I nodded to her hand.

"I had to know if he was bluffing and, if not, what I was up against. You don't really think General Ferraire won't have his own Siantide-powered toys, do you?"

"Ah. There is that. And he's had time in which to prepare for our coming."

"So expect a party when we finally catch up to him," Her Lordship nodded. "It will be… interesting."

From the way she said it, she clearly felt there would be more involved than kicking in the door the way we have been doing.

I looked forward to the change.

 **Taris, Part XI**

As it turned out, being back at the Toxic Lake Garrison was unpleasant, but not because of the smell this time. I mean, that was bad too—and seemed to get worse every time I came back from the wilds of Taris—but it was the sudden sense of hurry up and wait that bothered me.

Her Lordship's burn bothered the Captain enough for him to ask her to take it to a med-tech rather than rely on his own field abilities—this was partly due to concern and partly due to practicality. It always helps to know what you're up against.

Pierce was asleep in a kolto tank—apparently having submitted to it only because he wanted to be up for whatever came next.

Although the Captain seemed quite at ease, as though this kind of lull was normal, Her Lordship was not.

I shared her restlessness: we'd been at this mission hammer and tongs from day one (or so it felt) and now, suddenly, all we could do was wait. I finally understood why Sith get so _touchy_ between tasks. It was less a bad disposition (although there are plenty of them) and more being people of action forced to repose themselves in _inaction_. Fortunately, the garrison proved (willingly or unwillingly) accommodating, which meant that Her Lordship and I had a space for combat practice. It was little more than a walled-off landing pad, but it was mostly private.

As there was no time like the present, I convinced Vette to help me practice deflecting live fire. She thought I was crazy, of course, but a few well-worded implications that the Captain and his better aim might be more beneficial to me… well, she knew that was a bluff, but she capitulated.

It wasn't as thorough a workout as with Her Lordship, but useful in its own way since Vette took it seriously.

I didn't think I could handle just sitting in a chair in some corner of the garrison, watching how the military conducted the background work that was all the preparation for our mission. Her Lordship liked to do that, discreet and observant, never participating in the action around her, merely observing. Likely as not, most people forgot she was there, that's how discreet she was.

If Her Lordship heard anything from Darth Baras during the four days we waited, she didn't say anything to me. In fact, she seemed content to let me do just as I pleased, provided it didn't interfere with the orderly running of the garrison.

-J-

Author's note: Having looked it up, a battalion is between 400-1000 men. It seemed an unlikely number for a small unit to contend with. A company is about a hundred men; most were killed before/while entering the facility.


	26. Chapter 26

**Taris, Part XII**

"The situation is fairly complex," the Captain announced to the grim-faced crowd assembled in what I'd begun to think of as 'the planning alcove.'

The place seemed quite full, with the Captain, Her Lordship beside him, Pierce beside her, Vette and I standing with our backs to the door, and Moff Hurdenn standing behind the holoterminal which displayed Darth Baras. Apparently the Captain had been under instructions to contact Baras when the time for final planning came, since the Darth had been receiving updates as to mission success. He gave the impression of a man who simply wanted his fingers on the pulse of this mission, since it was the last stage on Taris, more than a man planning to gum up the works.

The sense of crowding made the air seem hot and stuffy.

"Ferraire's been bunkering down in a secure wing of the Republic's main base," Pierce declared. "Tapped a couple of scouts, had them head out soon as I got out of the tank. They've been reporting."

"Indeed," the Captain nodded. "Their information indicates anyone who was lucky enough to escape your and Jaesa's… predations…"

Her Lordship chuckled at this so-delicate wording. I grinned at the Captain. That's a _good_ word.

"Has fallen back to this imagined safety," the Captain continued. "It gives Ferraire a numerical advantage."

"They've been run over by us once," Her Lordship mused. "I can't imagine they'll be at all eager to have it happen again."

No, I imagine they won't.

"Still got a huge army protecting him and more reinforcements on the way. That's one reason we found him," Pierce put in.

"Too many mice scurrying for their holes," I added softly.

Her Lordship nodded agreement, though no one else took notice.

"Fella's closed ranks like he's bracing for the end of the world." Pierce said this in a way that sounded like his equivalent of a flowery compliment.

"Something like that, I hope," Her Lordship nodded.

"We're outnumbered eight to one."

The Captain shook his head. "The Lieutenant's statistics are inexact, but the general thrust is sound. Not to minimize your exceptional abilities, my lord, but bearing certain recent technological developments in mind, I would recommend a little more battlefield prep than we normally do."

That's not hard; we usually get a general idea of where we're going, what we're doing and in we wade. It's not a bad system… but eight to one (inexactly) is still a pretty tall order. And yet if they've been hit by us before… those who have could be scared into retreat. I mean, if they didn't stand up against us the first time, what makes them think a successive attempt would go any better?

"The numbers may favor Ferraire," I announced, tone low so it wouldn't shake as everyone's eyes jumped to me. "But if he's relying on people who have seen Her Lordship in action before it would be a simple matter for me to find out which ones. A line composed of such individuals would break easily if they were singled out. I'm the best candidate for such an undertaking for obvious reasons."

A soft pulse of amused pride from Her Lordship, both at my willingness, eagerness even, to jump in but also at the fact that I had a more plausible reason than a simple desire to fight and kill, more logic than just eagerness to feel the rush of being superior to those I stand against.

The Captain looked me over, a quick sweep from head to foot. "My lord, Jaesa's suggestion is tactically sound."

"Let me do this, my master," I said, trying not to sound pleading. "It will minimize our own collateral damages, as I'm sure we're not going in alone…" I glanced pointedly at the Moff. Apparently he'd been cautioned to keep his mouth shut and look important unless directly addressed; he'd have begun running his mouth long before if he hadn't, I'm sure.

"Of course, my lord, I have men standing by awaiting your orders," Moff Hurdenn volunteered hastily, trying (and failing) to sound like he was really a part of this operation. In reality, he's been little more than a rubber stamp since the Captain took over handling Her Lordship's interests and operations. "Some of my best, hand-picked, utterly fearless."

Pierce snorted at this, but it was quiet and bitter… and the expression on his face suggested his resentment of the remark came as a result of the losses he'd suffered hitting Durant's headquarters. Clearly the honorable dead were the 'utterly fearless' ones. They were also _his_.

"Excellent. I should like to address them before we depart," Her Lordship declared.

"Sure that'll mean a lot to the boys," Pierce nodded. He'd caught on quickly that Her Lordship wasn't the average Sith… and I suspected Hurdenn's enthusiasm had to be curbed. His curdled-milk expression suggested he'd wanted the men in the field and awaiting orders there, but had been overruled by the Captain… possibly with Pierce's backing.

Personal differences and disputes had died down to the occasional reference by one or the other of the two men. Even without Her Lordship to ensure professionalism, both men were soldier enough to worry more about getting things done with a minimum of losses on their side than in airing grievances or indulging in dislikes. That was best saved for off-duty or light-duty days.

"Maximizing our chances of success involves three simultaneous strikes," the Captain announced, cuing the holoprojector.

Vette and I moved closer, the better to see what was going on, effectively leaving Hurdenn out of the picture entirely. I think Vette took positive pleasure in almost elbowing her way into his spot close to the holoprojector. I cast him a warning look as I took up a spot beside her, just for good measure.

"One strike will destroy the base's power station. Another will sabotage its spaceport forcefields to thwart any reinforcements that might be called in. The last, of course, is your driving action towards Ferraire, my lord." The Captain paused, then, "Before they depart, I would like to speak to the officers of the squadrons closest to you, so they might know a little of what to expect."

Her Lordship nodded. "Granted. I also expect you to stay here and keep an eye on things." The Captain inclined his head. "Jaesa, I accept your most generous offer."

A ghost of relief, visible only to someone who knew him, flickered across Her Lordship. Clearly he felt I was the best person to back Her Lordship, if Vette and Pierce were the alternatives and since he'd been effectively tethered to operation management.

I glanced at Her Lordship, if she noticed this very sweet worrying on his part, she gave no evidence.

Pierce looked a bit put out. It was clear he really wanted to go with her, see her fight… glory for the unit and his dead men was probably part of his reasoning. But she's right: I _am_ the best choice. It isn't like she hasn't been training me for combat, even the long-term grueling stuff.

And I've yet to try something really long-term and grueling.

All in all, I'd say Taris has been a good experience for me. I feel so much more confident in my skills… even if I still feel pretty shaky in places. That confidence surely goes a long way in making me more effective, even as the shakiness keeps me from being overconfident, as well as giving me an idea of what I need to work on.

"Now, lieutenant, as I overlooked your preference, choose between these other two strikes," Her Lordship declared, giving him her attention.

I predicted he'd hit the spaceport—lots of property damage to vent his emotions, which roiled and fizzed with disappointment and the sense of trying to console himself with being granted his second choice.

"I know how Republic systems work. I can sabotage their spaceport."

Hooray for me.

"Granted. Vette, that leaves you the power station. Are you able?"

Normally, Vette would have given a soft 'psh' and chuckled, giving a smart comeback. However, with Baras looming silently over the meeting, she controlled herself. "Of course, my lord. I'll make it happen." Baras couldn't see her grin, but everyone else could. The grin said what she didn't: _I can do this, no problem—one eye closed, even._

"Pierce, unless you lock the spaceport forcefield, Ferraire's reinforcements will arrive in time to fight Her Lordship inside the base," the Captain noted.

Pierce scowled. " _Won't_ be an issue."

The Captain nodded. He said nothing to Vette, but gave her a _look_ that said 'do this right.'

She might have stuck her tongue out at him had we not been in company, so she compromised by scrunching her nose at him.

"Assaults have been assigned. I have the officers assembled and will brief them," the Captain announced. He must have had them pulled in before the meeting, anticipating Her Lordship allowing him a few minutes to brief them.

"When you've finished, have them rejoin their men. I will address them all," Her Lordship commanded simply. "You all know what must be done." She glanced around at each of us, bright orange eyes making eye contact with everyone, underscoring the points that followed. "I don't tolerate failures or screw-ups—thus your collective presence and your inclusion in this great undertaking."

Barring Hurdenn, of course.

"Without your ability to succeed, numbers at the ready are meaningless. Today's victory hinges on us together, upon our combined efforts. Go forth… and don't get killed."

Several wry smiles, Her Lordship's included, flickered around the table. Vette disappeared without a word, Pierce following a moment later after making an obeisance to Her Lordship. The Captain, too, vanished in short order, leaving me, Her Lordship, Hurdenn and Baras alone.

" _Quite the speech, Apprentice._ "

"Thank you, my lord," Her Lordship responded serenely, turning to look up at his holographic visage.

" _I expect to hear good news soon._ " With that, he cut the connection.

I exhaled slowly, glad he wasn't the type to micromanage or gum up the works by demanding periodic updates that gave the impression of micromanaging. He'll probably hit the Captain up for those—poor man.

"Truly inspiring, my lord," Hurdenn announced, quick to toady up. "Is there anything I can do to facilitate this mission? If so, don't hesitate to ask."

'Ask' he says.

"You may appear while I address my troops," Her Lordship answered without looking at him, her attention focused on the holomap. "And you may uncork the champagne at the end of a successful venture."

Which means he should find a corner and stand in it.

She looked over her shoulder at him. "No surprises this time, Hurdenn." Her tone was sweet, but there was poison under it. He was not to improvise; better still if he didn't think. "As to the champagne, I believe my droid, Tuvi, is hiding a bottle or two for me. I'll have to remember to ask."

I didn't think she was literal about the champagne. It just goes to show how serious this mission is.

As if I didn't know already.

Hurdenn excused himself, leaving Her Lordship and me alone. The air seemed thinner now that there weren't so many bodies in such a small space.

"I _have_ longed to lead an army," Her Lordship mused, apropos of nothing, as she traced figures on the holoterminal's base.

"Do you think our efforts here will be enough to break the Treaty of Coruscant?" I asked, frowning.

"Not by themselves, no. But If I know Baras, he'll have several other things lined up—and, no doubt, others are being pulled into his nets to advance his goals without even knowing it. The man's quite clever and far-thinking. If he _is_ using Farsight… he's remarkably good at it." She sounded both surprised and impressed.

We made small talk for some minutes more before the Captain reappeared. "My lord," he bowed politely. "The men are ready and awaiting your inspection."

There was an air in the large gathering space that made me think of festivals and parades, mingled with an underlying nervous apprehension—but apprehension can be good or bad and in this case it was both in equal measure. The men didn't know what kind of Sith was running the operation they'd been drafted into. They did know that this was a major assault after months of minor ones and limited results. Their collective frustration, the sense of being ground down, finally had a constructive path to funnel into.

The room and all its occupants fell silent as Her Lordship strode through their ranks.

For dramatic effect, no doubt, the Captain took her to a door that made crossing the room, actually moving through the massed soldiers, a necessity if she wanted to reach the platform from which speeches, instructions, and briefings were usually given.

The Captain waited at the door, while Moff Hurdenn stood lonely on the platform, waiting on the rest of us.

The auras of the soldiers roiled and mingled, popping and twisting, growing more agitated as Her Lordship moved through them with me in tow. They parted for her like water, no doubt feeling the sense of power and authority she brought into any room she entered.

This was not a Sith who lorded over them, or who prodded them forward from the safety of a garrison or forward base: this was a Sith to be _followed_. The glow of her lightsabers would show them the way. The way where? To _victory_. The apprehension in the air swung in a positive direction, bringing a trembling sense of excitement. This was now a genuine _offensive_ , not simply being thrown at an enemy because a Sith didn't know how to use the military.

She climbed the one step up onto the platform and turned, surveying the assembly. "Today we lash out at the Republic," she announced, her low voice filling the room with assurance and confidence. "The Republic's War Trust lies bleeding and broken, their presence on this planet whittled down to one frightened man bunkering down in the face of our assault."

It was not what the crowd expected, and any noises, any squeaking of boots, any rustling with nervous movements, ceased.

"You have been selected to follow me and my apprentice into battle, to find this one frightened man and send the Republic a clear message: their most well-known generals, their most vaunted leadership, are no match for the collective might of the Empire. Lend me your strength and I will lead you to _victory._ "

She knew how to put together a speech… and it occurred to me that there were many benefits of having Moff Thorne as a godfather: she knew all the complaints prevalent about the Sith and how to address them, she knew what words and ideas would motivate, fire up, the soldiers.

"Follow me into combat. Follow me to victory—and let us carve it into history: the War Trust was destroyed by the marginalized garrison on _this_ Force-forsaken planet!"

That got applause, cheers, and outspoken support. Apparently it was mostly the leadership who was here to keep them out of trouble. It seemed to me like the rest were either on someone's shit list, or just had some really bad luck. What was it Her Lordship called this place? An Imperial dumping ground?

For the officers, sure. Maybe not so much for the grunts. I actually felt a little bad for them.

Her Lordship gave her auditors a teeth-bared smile, that wolfish expression of enthusiasm. "Follow me." With that, she stepped off the stage and, with a firm tread, exuding energy and a willingness to get going, she strode through the masses, who swirled and roiled together before falling in behind her.

The ambience of the room was hopeful, enthusiastic, _this_ was a Sith to follow and to die for. She'd promised them victory—not reassignment—but they certainly believed that she could deliver.

And all this without having seen her fight.

It was, I decided, the difference between using someone and employing someone to complete a task.

 **Taris, Part XIII**

Sweat glazed my body and made the air feel far too close. The smell of hot blasters and scorched armor mingled with the muck sweat of others. My eyes still watered and ached from the amount of blaster fire—coming and going—as well as the swoop and sweep of my own lightsaber.

I was tired.

Her Lordship looked positively irradiated. Even a non-Sensitive would see something, but I could actually see the turbulence of the Force around her. The deep well of hate and anger and resentments, all so carefully swept in there to ferment quietly until needed had been tapped. The Force seemed to ripple around her, like rolls of thunder or powerful waves slamming into a seawall. Anyone watching her might see elation or enthusiasm, but for anyone watching the quality of her movements… each was vicious, violent, the kind of movement one used to slam around loose furnishings or belt an annoying underling in the mouth to get him to shut up.

It was a good lesson.

And I gave her _lots_ of elbow room.

I danced around the outer edge of the combat, flickering in and out to view as I picked off targets. Every time I moved closer to the line of Imperials assigned directly to Her Lordship's service I could feel their enthusiasm, their admiration. Combat is dangerous, but how could they lose with _that_ leading the way? Responsive to this, they put forth their best of best efforts.

It wasn't the admiration—awe, even—one would expect a soldier to hold for a Sith. It was the awe and admiration one feels for an artist, a true master of her medium, whose work garners interest and enthusiasm from her audience simply by virtue of her own mastery of it.

If she wanted her own squadrons or company at this point, all she would have to do was apply for volunteers. She'd end up having to turn willing supporters away.

I felt a tang of impatience which I immediately took out on an unsuspecting Republic soldier trying to flee the combat. I want that, that tribute of admiration, that willingness of others to serve. Guess I'd better get working on it.

The next door we met was a set of heavy blast doors. One of the Imperials ran to the fore, threw down a small technician's kit and eviscerated it, hands moving rapidly. In seconds the door was open.

Her Lordship went first, giving a low laugh as several bolts strayed from nervous blasters on the other side. She flicked them away with practiced ease, her lightsabers lacing the air before she sauntered forward, almost trembling with the eagerness to return to the fight.

"This is as far as you go, Sith," one officer announced.

His men had had time to bunker down and had taken it. Even the officer speaking was little more than a hat peering over a makeshift barricade—one of several, all composed of the kinds of railings used to denote landing pads or to prevent groundcars from getting too close to a building.

"You'll not reach General Ferraire. You're outnumbered."

"Do you really think so?" Her Lordship asked, voice throaty, breathing coming in the pants of exertion… and exhilaration.

I gave a silvery laugh, was pleased when auras shivered at the sound, so out of context here. I padded forward to stand at her shoulder. " _I_ don't think so," I announced sweetly. I _looked_ at the array of men, mostly bunkered down but some were slipping in sneakily, stealthily, on the second story catwalks.

"Don't you, indeed?" Her Lordship purred. She seemed to vibrate with eagerness to get back into the fight, to tear into her opponents.

I found I shared her anticipatory enthusiasm. "I look at these Republic dogs and sense… hatred… anger… and a willingness to die for their Republic."

"At least we can say we're an obliging incursion," Her Lordship chuckled darkly, which made the auras of our own lines shiver as well.

"But I seem to see some familiar faces…" I paused, then laughed. "Those served with the late General Durant. Here are a few of Frellka's rearguard—they know what you did to him. And there… a few whom General Minst didn't require to die in his stead. Conscripts… soldiers forced to be here when many have had more than enough of Sith might… but not enough to be smart about it."

Grey dismay rose from those called out, hanging like an exhausted cloud of fatalism. They couldn't stop us once; their leadership didn't understand that a second attempt to stand would have an amplified version of the same results.

"What is your professional opinion, then?" Her Lordship asked.

"My _professional_ opinion is that General Ferraire should have kept these weak links with himself and sent a stronger advance force," I answered. "They have numbers… but they lack the collective will." The words came out coldly, and I felt the Republic soldiers I'd called out shiver and actually quail, their fear and agony at being thrown at this Sith again or dragged in front of her path, adding a nasty sensation like odor—like sour laundry or that acidic tang of vomit—to the air.

"I'm changing the plan," Her Lordship announced in a low tone, for her own men's benefit. "We can destroy this rabble."

"Men! Plan B!" the unit officers with us suddenly barked.

The Imperials immediately shuffled and scooted about, rearranging themselves. Nervousness crept to a higher level in their auras, but they weren't worried about being put through a meat grinder because of some Sith's whim.

"Plan B?" Her Lordship asked, not looking behind her, both of us taking note that the Republic didn't open fire when they should have.

"Captain Quinn, m'lord," one of the officers answered. "He said—begging your pardon and meaning no disrespect—you might be feeling impish by the time we met a force like this one, here. Didn't want us gumming up your campaign, so he made sure we'd be ready to back you properly."

Her Lordship chuckled. "Ah, that man knows me far too well."

From the tremor around us, there were plenty who'd be happy to take his place as the object of her attentions… but I think some of that was just adrenaline. Most were smart enough to know she was out of their league.

It's like Her Lordship says: people will forgive you just about anything if you're charming and powerful. Apparently that holds true for more than just forgiveness.

"Jaesa… let's put these Republic retreads through the meat grinder," Her Lordship purred.

"On your order, my lord," I answered, swallowing and glancing at the upper-story shooting gallery. "The weakest flank is on the left."

Her Lordship sprang forward with a scream like a wildcat—something she almost never does—the sound laced with undercurrents of the Force reinforcing it, amplifying it. It was an inhuman sound, the screech of a hunting bird to freeze its prey, rattling the ears and soft tissues of its victims, chilling the blood of anyone listening (myself inclusive).

It froze our forces for a few seconds, it was such an unexpected, unearthly sound.

In this instance, under these stresses and pressures, the sound had a profound psychological effect on the Republic soldiers: some of them gave ground, even though she wasn't close to them; those among whom she landed seemed momentarily paralyzed; some tried to move but found their reflexes slowed. The hellcat's screech swung upward with an enthusiasm that sent even more of the most demoralized running as if without shame. Some even dropped weapons to clamp hands over their ears, as if that could do some good.

I made a leap, catching myself on the catwalk of the upper story and vaulting the railing. The walkway rattled underfoot as the troopers, who seemed to have thought they were clever, put some distance between myself and them. Not having been on the ground, in the direct path of Her Lordship' assault, the Force screams had less of a visceral effect on them—though I don't doubt they all had gooseflesh.

Lights flashed as blaster bolts bounced off my lightsaber as I moved steadily and slowly towards them.

These men were some of Durant's. They were brave enough shooting from the shadows, but finding themselves face-to-face with another Sith—a Sith they'd seen once in battle already—their courage began to crumble.

There was something enticing about their fear, something alluring about their helpless sense of being lost. I was stronger, better, than they were and they knew it. They couldn't do anything about it; this was Durant's hideout all over again.

In one smooth motion, I shifted from defense to offense and, as several of the men rounded the corner of the catwalk, used a Force pull to jerk them over the railing, falling to the ground level with some very unpleasant noises upon impact.

Again, I had to pause in my progress to deflect fire from those remaining… but their aim was getting erratic.

A quick glance at the battlefield below showed that Her Lordship was in full swing, no longer requiring the scream with which she'd opened the battle, the Imperials split between picking their own targets and dutifully providing supporting fire. Bodies littered the ground, some of ours, a lot of the Republic's. Some were moving, but most weren't.

I lifted a hand at the first break in fire, lightning crackling from my fingers into the nearest Republic trooper. This was too much, causing them to panic and run. I wasn't Her Lordship… but I was bad enough with my 'now you see me' tactics. Force lighting, however, is a frightening thing: how do you fight someone with lightning literally at her fingertips?

The instant I had their backs, I sprinted up to them. It was done in moments.

The way I'd come was littered with bodies, more than I thought I'd made. In fact, I had to stop for a moment and marvel: did I really do all of that? And without a mark to show for it?

I took a slow breath, drew my shroud of invisibility around myself, then vaulted from the railing to land on the main floor again, skirting the fighting and making my way around so I could see what kind of leadership was present.

It's practical to start with the highest ranking officer and work down.

I found myself grinning wolfishly as I made my way towards my target, feeling every inch the hunter, every ounce the superior, every iota an increasingly well-trained Sith.

I wondered if I was glowing like Her Lordship does.

 **Taris, Part XIV**

"Hold here and do not join the battle unless Jaesa and I fall," Her Lordship commanded, once we'd gone as far as we could without encountering General Ferraire. "You've acquitted yourselves well and have done enough."

Pride mingled with a little disappointment at being benched (essentially) this close to the end game. The faces of the soldiers did not disguise their disappointment, making me think of puppies denied an outing. Their willingness to follow her, to fight under her watchful eye moved like the sea, tumbling and sliding against itself.

Still, no one was going to gainsay her: they'd been behind Her Lordship (essentially but most usually in fact) this whole engagement. As I thought earlier: the glow of her lightsaber showed them the way.

Some of Her Lordship's battle-high drained off as we met less (or, at least, less wholehearted) resistance, leaving her to present her usual cool approach… but I had no doubt that, given a good fight, she'd blaze right back up, like a fire given fresh fuel.

By this point I'd picked up a few burns, less from clumsiness on my part and more from slowness to react. I wasn't used to long engagements, while this proved to be quite the grueling slog, even though it was clear Vette and Pierce had done their jobs and done them well.

Her Lordship seemed made of durasteel, unrelenting in her forward momentum, running over anything that got in her way. I had to admire her, the human natural disaster—fire that burned, wind that twisted and tore up anything in its path, water which obliterated anything in its forward progress, the earth that crumbled beneath one's very feet to swallow up the unfortunate.

Her Lordship's holocom buzzed. With a sigh, she clipped one lightsaber to her belt, pulling the device out. "Quinn." The smile she gave him was one of genuine pleasure in seeing him.

" _My lord. We have tapped into the base's internal monitoring suite. I can see you from three different angles._ "

Her Lordship's mouth lifted higher at one end, her expression almost predatory, her eyes glittering as if lit by the fires burning in her soul. She arched an eyebrow at the Captain.

Translation: Do I look as good as I feel right now?

" _Your work has been truly inspiring,_ " the Captain allowed.

Translation: I could watch you rampage through Republic forces all day.

I felt myself smirking however hard I tried not to, ending up with a puckered mouth, like I'd gotten a good bite of something sour.

" _Monitoring indicates General Ferraire is just beyond those doors,_ " the Captain announced. " _I also have a status update for you._ "

"Go ahead."

I took a long draught from my hydration unit. Her Lordship saw it then followed suit, reminded of the basic necessity. It was almost funny: she seemed to perk up with the inflow of water, like a plant—not a Dromund Kaas one, a plant on a planet with a proper weather pattern—in spite of her formidable presentation.

That's bad news for Ferraire, to be sure.

" _The power station has been utterly destroyed. Vette went through their traps and defenses like they were infant toys._ _From her report, I doubt anyone else could have achieved it."_

Her Lordship chuckled at this. "That's high praise, as it comes from you. Such exemplary service should be rewarded."

I don't doubt she meant it, but it was also a reminder for the men digging in around her. Service might be its own reward, but tangible rewards are nice, too. It also shows how highly she values the Captain, to comment upon his opinion as being worth serious consideration.

" _When she puts her mind to it she can be a very valuable asset._ "

I'll say this for the Captain: he's not nuts about aliens—Vette in particular—but he won't let that get in the way of his professional opinion. And, privately, I think he'd like Her Lordship even if she was… well, maybe not a _Rodian_ , but any one of the near-human races.

" _On the other front, Lt. Pierce was able to sabotage and lock the Republic spaceport forcefield controls. Ferraire's reinforcements will decidedly_ _not_ _be joining him. I have several units moving to intercept._ "

I think Pierce put a couple blaster bolts in the panel just to make sure no one could do anything to fix the sabotage… and to relieve his own feelings, of course.

"The right man for the right job," Her Lordship noted.

" _Yes. It seems under that insubordinate exterior lies a very capable soldier._ "

Ouch. I think he hurt himself on that one. It was amusing to think it was easier for him to praise Vette than Pierce. She's moving up in the world (or at least on the Captain's list ranking people he likes versus those he dislikes). I wonder if I ought to tell her…

"Is there anything else I should know?"

" _You're in the end game, my lord, but General Ferraire's elite guard is sequestered with him. His bunker is on an emergency backup generator. I have men in reserve to find it and destroy it, but thought that the results would distract you during the fight if you were not warned beforehand._ "

"Leave the generator alone. If he had anything that truly concerned you, you'd have said something before now. Don't needlessly spread our troops too thin."

" _Done, my lord, and end report._ "

"Excellent job as always, Captain."

The Captain inclined his head at this. To a casual onlooker it was a gesture of perfect submission to his Sith master—or, rather, mistress—but I caught the way he watched her from beneath his eyelashes. She did too, resulting in another of those moments that made me want to look away in embarrassment. They're going to set fire to something with those sparks; or perhaps since Her Lordship is involved, blow something up.

Apparently the poison is one to be picked rather than not.

"If there's nothing else, Ferraire is waiting."

" _Nothing requiring your attention, my lord—although I will point out that Ferraire's guard are_ _quite_ _formidable._ "

"Danger only makes things more fun."

" _Then this should be the most 'fun' you've had yet_ ," the Captain answered quite seriously.

Her Lordship's eyes narrowed slightly, her expression becoming a shade more fixed. If he was concerned, she would take that seriously, however much she might give the impression of playing it off.

The Captain saw and noted both the changes—however minute—to her expression, understanding them as well as I did. " _I shall be ready to salute you once Ferraire's threat has been abolished._ "

He must have been alluding to something else, for Her Lordship chuckled softly, the evidences of concern vanishing like smoke. "Stay tuned, Captain." She severed the call, took another long draught from her hydration pack, then turned towards the doors, nodding to the tech who was ready to slice them.

The doors hissed open, revealing Ferraire, his bunkered-down men, and several very large war droids. "Shut the doors behind us," Her Lordship intoned as she moved past the tech. I could feel that the men didn't like the door between their Sith master and themselves, but no one was going to argue with her.

It was a sweet sentiment for them to entertain, particularly as she hadn't known them for very long. I made a mental note to direct myself to cultivating a similar sense of presence, of palpable power. It was almost as formidable a thing, in the hand of someone who could wield it, as many Force tricks.

The doors hissed shut behind us and auras rose into an orchestral swell of the whole gamut of positively admiring emotions, underscored with low-level concern. _That_ was a Sith, but what if she needed them?

What did I say? Adorable.

General Ferraire was slight, but much older than I expected… at least, he _looked_ old. He was certainly balding, but his remaining hair showed no signs of grey.

"It's time to join your contemporaries, General," Her Lordship announced, eyes fixed on the General's reinforcements rather than the General himself.

The droids were Siantide powered; they couldn't not be, not with the way the General—however watchful—seemed so complacent.

My skin crawled.

A bolt from a Siantide-powered blaster scorched Her Lordship's hand fairly badly, even with her ability to deflect fire. These droids were bigger, possessed larger armaments, stronger ones even under normal circumstances.

I had to wonder whether or not these were equivalent to what the Republic call Imperial 'Jedi killers'—droids with cortosis-coated plating, which made them less vulnerable to lightsaber strikes. My nerves tingled as I reached out for Ferraire's men. _They_ were a little impressed by this show of Sith might, but they felt confident that Siantide was more than a match for any Sith—or pair of Sith.

Beneath the confidence was a seed of doubt, a granule of fear that these two Sith would show that Project Siantide was just like so many others: effective against anything _but_ a Force-user when Force-users were the enemy against whom Siantide absolutely needed to work.

"Not at all, Sith," the General answered complacently. "After you took down my fellows I knew my only answer lay in delaying you. A gambit which has paid off."

"I take it you mean _those_?" Her Lordship indicated the droids with her chin.

"Quite. I bought enough time for my technicians to stabilize Siantide cells of any kind."

 _He_ bought? More like his flunkies bought it… heh. 'Bought it.'

"The future is upon us, Sith, and you have the privilege of bearing witness."

Her Lordship's lip curled as the droids' motors whirred to life, bringing them out of their quiescent waiting.

"Enemy sighted," the left-hand droid announced.

"Weapons systems targeted and locked," the right-hand droid confirmed.

"I've handled war droids before," Her Lordship answered off-handedly, her body coiling discreetly, compressing like a spring.

I took a slow breath while making similar preparations. Getting out of the way of the first barrage is the main thing. This is the only opportunity the droids will have to get a good, solid lock on us. After that, we move around too much (or so the plan goes) for them to do more than fire near-misses.

It's the same reason you don't see major uses of the Force in combat—like picking up a heavily-armored troop carrier and throwing it—very often. It takes concentration to overcome the idea 'it's too big!' that is hard to muster while deflecting blaster fire or holding hodlign off a lightsaber-wielding opponent.

"Not like this you haven't," the General answered testily.

I took this testiness to mean he's bluffing to a degree: there's been no time to field test these stabilized cells. Their first test is in the most dire of situations.

"Siantide technology increases the strength of whatever it powers tenfold. The Republic fleet and arsenal will make your weapons obsolete. The Empire will have no choice but to surrender," the General concluded, but his tone continued lukewarm, placid.

…he knows we're being watched. You can't intimidate a Sith like that, but you can intimidate the ground-pounders most likely to see Siantide close up. But Her Lordship has the faith of the men; they've seen her power firsthand as she led them to this point. The backbone of this garrison won't bend so quickly, just because some Republic General knows how to run his mouth.

I could barely contain my disgust: he's like so many Sith, bleating about how powerful they (or in this case their weapons) are while the reality is so far from what they profess. As Her Lordship says and demonstrates: those who shout about being powerful rarely are. _Real_ power needs no such preface.

Her Lordship pointed her off-hand lightsaber at him menacingly. "Don't be so proud of these technological terrors you've constructed, General. Such machines are inconsequential compared to the Force." There was such a funereal note in her tone that I was taken aback.

"Then you won't mind if I test that theory," the General sneered. Well, that was what he _tried_ to say—it got lost in the abrupt onset of his men's gunfire, followed in quick succession by that of the droids.

I wasn't sure who to attack first, the droids or the men. The hesitation cost me nasty burn from someone's blaster while I repelled a bolt from one of the droids. The searing pain of it brought clarity, as well as a lesson: don't hesitate in combat. As Her Lordship always said, ' _be decisive._ '

Her Lordship was already between the droids, which scuttled with unusual nimbleness to reacquire a targeting solution on her.

The General, however, simply waited behind the line of his men, hands folded behind his back as he watched complacently.

It was enough to make me feel truly savage… almost enough to make me forget tactics in the mad rush of desire to strike him down as he stood there so secure, so proud…

I found Her Lordship, who seemed to still be figuring out the droids, then drew the Force around me. Several of the General's men shouted as I disappeared from right under their noses.

The General didn't seem surprised, merely ordered his men to form up into clusters of three, which allowed them to put their backs together so I couldn't get behind any one of them.

I gritted my teeth, hating my indecision—

A sharp imperative whipped across the bond Her Lordship and I shared like a galvanizing slap: if I was having trouble deciding who to go after, grab the droid closest to her and throw it at the soldiers, for stars' sake!

With a snarl of effort—as well as a show that might have been exaggerated for the benefit of anyone watching—she applied herself just as I did. Between the two of us, we pitched the war droid at Ferraire and his men. They scattered to avoid the flying heap of metal—still flailing its limbs as it continued trying to shoot Her Lordship—which broke up their tight little formations, leaving me an opening.

The three closest to the General were dead in seconds; I flung the General across the room towards the door our Imperial forces guarded. He hit the ground heavily. The landing stunned him, for he moved feebly but did not rise.

I also wrenched his gun away from him, throwing it out of reach and leaving him defenseless.

The momentary inaction of checking on him left me open to attack, putting me momentarily on the defense and leaving me wishing—yet again—that I had appreciable skill with sending bolts where I wanted them to go.

I raised a hand, lightning crackling through the air. Some of the soldiers scattered, but only to gain better positions. The Captain wasn't exaggerating when he said they were formidable. To their credit (and my chagrin) they seemed to know I wasn't as combat-practiced as Her Lordship. Thus, they judged me a weak link.

Her Lordship was still working away at the droid, a hot, burning ball of hate and rage over being kept at bay by a hunk of _scrap_. However, it was also the heat and anger of someone who knows she's about to triumph over her adversary with just a bit more effort. Underneath it though… I only felt it because of the bond between us: underneath her battle high was something bitter, black, and venomous, as if that cold-blooded part of her that never really went away brooded over some slight or insult that got through her thick skin.

I was ready for the next volley of bolts, two of which rebounded at one of the soldiers, who took both to the chest.

This caused enough of a disturbance for me to have a couple seconds in which to think—seconds which, given the situation, seemed like an eternity. I reached back, grabbed Ferraire, who was regaining his senses, and flung him back at his own men. He slammed into them like a rock…

…just as the droid Her Lordship was fighting exploded spectacularly. I wasn't clear whether she hit something sensitive or if the thing had a self-destruct protocol. Whichever it was, it happened. She let loose a sharp shriek, partly in shock, partly in pain—certainly genuine distress—but she wasn't the only one.

Shrapnel flew everywhere. I dropped my lightsaber, throwing up both hands to divert any that came at me. The defensive maneuver was not completely successful. Bloody rents appeared in my arms… but only a few and none in the rest of me. Several pieces of shrapnel, slowed by my efforts, caught in my lower robe, but they neither shredded the fabric nor made it to my flesh.

Her Lordship was fine, in spite of the searing pain I felt emanating from her like the high-pitched feedback of a microphone. She was on her feet, slightly hunched and there was something wrong with her stance, but she didn't seem to be injured badly. She seemed more angry than hurt after the first few moments.

The soldiers had much less luck than we Sith.

I flung the shrapnel I'd managed to catch at them, the pieces accelerated to lethal speeds.

Her Lordship did much the same thing: blood pooled beneath the pile of soldiers, tangible evidence that more than one person took injury badly enough to bleed copiously if he wasn't killed outright.

I reached out through the Force, tossing aside soldiers until Ferraire, at the bottom of the pile, lay exposed. His men had done the only thing they could: they'd put themselves between him and the threat he faced. It was a noble thing to do… but stupid. Pointless.

"Are you alright?" Her Lordship demanded sharply as Ferraire, freed of the dead weight and galvanized by her harsh voice, struggled to his feet.

"Fine, master," I answered grimly, glancing at the blood running down my arms, as well as that which adorned her. Apparently she'd had trouble deflecting shrapnel, too… but she'd been so much closer. That she was able to at almost point-blank range… that's a use of the Force something that almost doesn't require thought: she needed protection and it protected her.

When she walked, she favored one leg in spite of her efforts not to show it; pain rumbled like distant thunder in her aura. The rents in her skin and clothes were deeper than those in mine. But she'd stopped the shrapnel from killing her, there where she stood, at the epicenter of the explosion where it would be most deadly.

Rage augmented by pain boiled around her, the rage fueled by the knowledge over which she'd been brooding: she had just averted a formidable weapon against the Empire. A weapon that could have been pointed—and this was, I realized, the heart of the almost savage anger—at her godfather. Or the Captain. _Her_ Captain. She worried less for herself and for me, but worried greatly for _them_ , and this General had, directly or indirectly, threatened them… which _really_ put her out of temper. She took it like a personal insult; thus, one could expect an extreme reaction even if most people wouldn't understand the real reason for the anger.

None of this was in her aura: I only knew it because I knew her. It suggested that whatever she presented to the galaxy… there really were people she cared genuinely about as opposed to people towards whom she felt merely indulgent. It was… weird.

Ferraire should have just shot himself in the head. It would be better than whatever she's planning for him. I've never seen her like this, and she's going to make him hurt, going to make him feel everything his pet project won't be allowed to inflict on those two soldiers whose lives _matter_.

Ferraire grabbed the nearest weapon and, backing up, unloaded several bolts at her, which she flicked aside casually with a twirling lightsaber as though they were annoying gnats. Her aura—as well as her face—grew blacker and darker, more stifling, with every limping step.

The Force usually hunkers behind her, like a rancor on a ribbon, but now it flared, big, black, and brooding, like a monstrous, deadly shadow. I would almost swear my peripheral vision filled with something dark and cloudy—'almost' because every time I tried to see if it was just me or if it really was some effect of the Force I came to no satisfactory conclusion.

She snatched him up through the Force and slammed him into a wall, letting him fall. Then she threw his pistol back to him. "Get up, General." The words were searingly cold.

I imagine she was trying desperately not to let the rage radiate off like that, spent without effect, wasted… but it wasn't working. I asked her, once, what she would do if she'd been in my position, with someone hunting the people she cared about. Now I had a concrete hint at the answer: she'd simply run them over, like a massive wave slamming into a beachside town, or a mudslide demolishing a house. There would be _no_ survivors; the person she cared for might be gone, but she would crush first those near to the one imprudent enough to make such an attack, then those close to that person… and then that person him- or herself. They would know every drop of her pain before she put them out of their misery.

I shuddered, hoping I would never have to see that.

Her Lordship gestured again, snatching Ferraire up and slamming him into the floor. He landed with a spectacular lack of bounce. Again, she returned his weapon to him. "Get up, General," she said with a quietly implacable tone that made my blood run cold. The anger was under control, and even more frightening _because_ it was now controlled. It meant she was stronger than the anger, and that had been _so_ strong.

Was _this_ what Baras 'sensed' when he told her—according to her own account—that he 'sensed a power sleeping inside her'? And more than that, did he sense the whole iceberg, or just the tip?

Ferraire got to his feet and immediately began unloading his blaster at her. She flicked the bolts aside as she advanced, still limping but balefully determined. The Force seemed to solidify like gelatin.

The next slam into the wall and further maneuvering on the General's part put him next to a blind spot—and he moved as if inhibited, like a man caught in a bad dream when running away isn't really effective. Nevertheless, relief fluttered through the terror beginning to blossom through his aura. "All-all this work…" he panted. "All this _death_ … for naught." Wildness was in his eyes as he surveyed the damage, as well as the angry Sith who caused it.

'For naught?' Who talks like _that_ anymore?

Her Lordship's expression became truly ugly, her face actually _twitching_ , but she didn't address Ferraire's comments. In fact, she tightened herself for a spring. She was actually giving way to anger, intending to let him run a bit only to drag him back and either slice into him with a powered-down lightsaber or just slam him into hard surfaces until he couldn't run anymore. She was going to take out of his hide every moment of concern his Project Siantide had caused her. She was going to take him apart piece by piece for having threatened the only two men in the galaxy she truly cared about…

…because Lord Augustine could look after himself.

"He's going to run—he's got an exit behind that… thing," I waved at the large piece of equipment he'd edged towards and which partially screened him.

"Let him try," Her Lordship grated out. "You're dead, General," she declared in a much louder voice. If tones could kill he'd have dropped on the spot.

It was a mark of how much he'd angered her, how much his project angered her, that she seemed to have no intention of keeping him to be killed later. Normally, she would let Imperial Intelligence have him. This time, they would have to do without this resource because he succeeded—where many others failed—in pushed her beyond the bounds of accepting usefulness with regards to the big picture in lieu of personal satisfaction. This was a personal kill, the first I'd seen her indulge in.

Ferraire didn't hear our conversation. It showed as he regarded the carnage. "I'd love to discuss where I went wrong," the General tossed out. "But a good leader always has an exit strategy—" He turned and sprinted… as best he could. He moved like a man who was really hurting.

"Run all you like, General—it won't save you!" Her Lordship charged after him, reminding me of nothing so much as a hunting bird stooping over its prey, or a predator howling for blood.

I was half a step behind her, putting all my efforts into keeping up even though she limped badly as she moved. The Force ran through her, that was for sure. It was a good lesson: even injured it kept her on her feet, enabled her to chase her prey, to keep up with him. I didn't sense any effort in its use. She needed it, it responded to the need, simple as that.

She caught the General, slamming him viciously into a wall before dropping him. She stopped running, watched him struggle to his feet, then let him start off again. A few moments for him to get some momentum and distance, then she was off again.

"Look out!" the voice belonged to Pierce, sounding more startled than sharp with warning.

A strange sound issued from the narrow corridor into which Ferraire turned, followed by the sound of someone responding to an impact.

Her Lordship turned the corner, hand raised to drag the General back only to find it completely unnecessary.

The General lay dazed and groaning on the ground, his nose a bleeding, bruising mess.

The Captain (with Pierce beside him and some dozen men behind them), regarded Ferraire grimly.

Pierce looked a little surprised, which told me that the General had surprised the troupe by coming around the corner like that. Rather than be surprised or stall at the unexpected appearance, the Captain did the smart thing: he lashed out with the butt of his blaster rifle, which collided solidly with Ferraire's face. It might even have been a way to relieve his feelings a little, for the air was colored with muffled concern for Her Lordship. He would have noticed, first and foremost, that she was limping, while leaving a trail of blood behind her.

That the Captain was carrying a proper rifle rather than just his usual sidearm showed exactly how seriously he was taking this, as did the fact that he was _here_ rather than at the garrison or whatever forward operating base had been established. That sounded like him: get as close to the fight as possible without violating his standing orders.

"Quinn…" Her Lordship's aura suddenly sucked itself in. The sudden emptiness of the space it occupied left my senses lurking, like I'd missed a step going down stairs. The disastrous could-have-been upon which she'd fixated, from which she spun the hot ball of anger and hatred, malevolence and the necessity of exacting revenge, couldn't exist in the presence of the reality.

I don't think it just went away: it just crawled into that dark pit where she keeps such things for days like today, waiting to compound with whatever she didn't use or whatever she adds to that pit in future.

"My lord. I thought the General might try to run. With the situation stable, I suspected you would not be adverse to my joining one of the units cutting off his various exits." The Captain passed off the rifle to Pierce so he could yank the General to his feet.

Out came the sidearm, which he placed snugly in a gap in the General's armor. The Captain's lips moved near the General's ear, but his words were inaudible; it was obvious, though, that the Captain was making it clear to the General how one funny move—one funny _twitch_ —would leave the man badly injured as well as on a Sith's shit list.

Naturally, the Captain wouldn't kill him before Her Lordship gave the order; he knew as well as I did that if the General was going to die today Her Lordship would be the one to kill him. She would resent anyone, even the Captain, interfering.

Personally, I thought the General's chances of surviving this encounter actually went up with this very concrete proof that the Captain was currently less injured than she was. I could see him eyeing her posture, taking in scrapes, burns and the way she favored that leg. I could almost feel him itching to sit her down, assess the damage, and begin treating it.

The General did his best to straighten up, to stand on his own two feet, in order to bravely face the Sith. Or maybe he meant to court death—falling into enemy hands isn't usually a good thing. I mean, it happened to me… only Her Lordship turned out not to be the real enemy.

"Ah, I can always count on you, Quinn," Her Lordship smirked, some of the calm purr returning to her voice.

I could sense it through our bond, even if it wasn't in her aura: if they'd been what is popularly called 'a thing' she'd send everyone away or find a nice little closet somewhere and reassure herself, re-stabilize her nerves, in the most basic fashion. The General's Siantide plan really scared her; I imagine she feels it more acutely because she's not used to being made to feel afraid… and she resents it when it happens.

The General, his words distorted by his bleeding (and probably broken) nose, did his best to speak clearly, "I surrender. I expect to be accorded the treatment promised to prisoners in the Treaty of—"

Her Lordship's temper broke again—or, rather, relief finally caught up with her in full. Despite the audience who would witness the encounter (and live to tell about it) the General's words choked off as she _squeezed_ at his throat—she didn't use a hand gesture to facilitate the action: she simply glared at him. For a moment, I imagine people were confused until they realized that the use of hands for Sith (Jedi too, I suppose) is just a gesture to aid concentration.

"You will be treated however Darth Baras or Imperial Intelligence or whomever you go to wishes," she answered grimly. "Be glad you are not remaining in _my_ charge, General. I was looking forward to dismembering you."

With an ugly look, she flung him bodily against the wall, then scraped him up so she could slam him with bone-jarring—bone-shattering—force into the floor. Bones crunched with both impacts, after which it was obvious she had him pinned down through the Force—a taste of what she meant when she said his technological terrors were _nothing_ compared to the power she wielded.

"Pierce," she snapped. "Get this _maggot_ out of my sight. He will be taken to the garrison immediately and prepared for transport to Dromund Kaas. Wedge his mouth—the others had poison teeth."

The Captain was the one who produced a roll of bandages from his medkit, which he stuffed none too gently into the General's gasping mouth. It wasn't until Pierce had a good hold on him that Her Lordship, eyes burning balefully, released the man. The way he sucked breath showed both the pressure she'd exerted and the amount of pain that pressure induced.

Within moments, the Captain had the hall cleared of everyone save for himself, me, and Her Lordship.

"My lord," the Captain began as soon as he could do so without being overheard. His tone was nothing but wearily deprecating. "Sit down before you fall down. Jaesa, are you badly injured?" He moved so Her Lordship could lean on him.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, burying her face in the place they joined as she allowed him to help her to the floor. She whimpered softly, a bitten-off sound that prompted the Captain to readjust himself, catching her injured leg below the knee and taking the weight. It wasn't the most graceful of descents, but he got her settled gently on the floor.

For a moment I thought she might evidence reluctance in letting him go, might hold onto him longer than was needful. She did not, but I felt it, muffled almost to nothing, through our bond: she would much prefer to simply heal the wounds herself if it meant she could just hold him. No kissing, no groping, just _hold_ him, because he was safe again.

"Nothing I can't cope with," I answered, glad to hear my tone didn't betray any of my mental considerations. Once again the Jedi are wrong: they wouldn't believe a Sith could feel something so complicated or so deeply. Not something along the lines of affection, anyway.

The Captain waited for me to answer before briskly and dispassionately undoing Her Lordship's lower robe so he could see the damage. He had a little trouble, being unfamiliar with the garment, but he managed. Her Lordship made no move to help, nor made any teasing remarks, nor gave him _looks_ as he helped her wriggle out of her leggings. She simply rested her hands on his shoulders to keep them and her arms out of the way… and her grip was tight, as if drawing comfort and reassurance from what they gripped.

Her right thigh bled freely and nastily from several nasty cuts, two of which were very deep. His fingers traced the edges of the wounds. "I think you'll survive." When he looked at her face, his expression was slightly teasing.

She didn't see it, or say anything. Her eyes remained closed, her body heaving with shaky breaths. I began to think the sweat was no longer that of exertion, that the shaking was no longer fear-fueled rage or relief.

I prodded her through our bond, caught it as a faint scream. Without the anger, without action, the pain had begun getting the better of her, in spite of her attempts to accelerate the healing.

She was running with damages like _that_? It was worse than I thought it was, leaving room to imagine the wounds to her face and chest she'd succeeded in preventing.

Without an audience, without the General to vent her spleen at (or on), her expression twisted into unabashed pained discomfort.

The Captain produced a hypospray of painkillers (so I assume), checked it, then stuck it into her other thigh. She hissed, then gave a small un-Sith-worthy whimper, then shakily relaxed.

"How were our losses?" Her Lordship asked, once the Captain had made inroads with treating the lacerations.

"Not bad, considering the scale of the assault and its complexity," the Captain answered briskly.

I leaned against the wall and slid to sitting, the better to do my best to heal those of my wounds that hadn't stopped bleeding.

"As victory is always attributed to the commanding officer, the victory is yours, my lord. And it's a notable one."

"Where is Hurdenn? I didn't see him slinking about." Not that she wasn't glad not to see him.

The Captain let out a soft huff that was amusement. "I made it clear you would be displeased if the forward base we established was bereft of leadership. As he was the highest ranking official present, he couldn't _possibly_ abandon his post."

Her Lordship chuckled, but the sound was thin, strained. "Good."

She didn't say a word about his task of monitoring the situation; clearly she felt that if the Captain was _here_ when he had other instructions than those instructions were no longer necessary or valid. Rather, she watched him as he worked, letting the mundane conversation settle her back into her usual mindsets.

"We have transports that will take you back to the garrison. You may have to endure the Moff's fawning, but I should be able to come up with a way to avoid burdening you with it overmuch," the Captain assured her.

Her Lordship considered as the Captain began sponging the blood off her arms. "If you're there I'm sure I can refrain from doing anything regrettable."

"These cuts look bad." By now, the Captain's motions were no longer brisk and professional. There was something decidedly gentler as he mopped her up, wiping away the blood, pausing to apply butterfly strips or dermal-patches, spraying little puffs of kolto here and there as needed. If they'd been alone, he might—might, might, _might_ —even have been induced to employ the 'kiss it better' treatment… or something similar.

"The shrapnel _was_ bad." It was as close to admitting she'd been in a bit over her head as she would ever come. Even Sith aren't invulnerable, and she was _way_ too close to that droid when it exploded.

The Captain didn't miss the implication; rather, he seemed to catch on it. Yet another reason, I could almost see the thoughts etched in the tiny flickers of emotion on his face, to leave me at home and take him with her. "I see."

Her Lordship closed her eyes. "The remaining droid is a liability. It needs to be destroyed."

I pushed myself to my feet, taking the hint and not disappointed to have a reason to give them a little space. "I'm not badly hurt. I can go back and fry it."

"Please do. Siantide as a project stops here."

The Captain's brows knitted together as if he didn't agree with her, but he didn't say anything about it. He was better acquainted with the project and its intricacies than any other Imperial, but it's clear he didn't share Her Lordship's idea that the Empire would be weakened in the long run.

He bent back over his work, so he didn't see the look that crossed her face.

I wished I hadn't. Not even I should know that he's _precious_ to her.


	27. Chapter 27

**On Formalities**

Her Lordship idly toyed with her champagne, which she was not really drinking, her expression schooled into careful patience. The reason for the lack of enjoyment and the exercise in patience was probably residual pain in her leg… and the current irritation caused a short little man with a wheedling mien.

Moff Hurdenn, to be precise.

Her Lordship had been much more enthusiastic when addressing the soldiers who survived the assault on the night before. One didn't need to be Force sensitive to sense how proud they were to be Imperial Armed Forces during the minutes she addressed them. They were bursting with it—losses aside, a continued (much reduced) Republic presence aside.

According to the Captain—hovering at her shoulder, worried as he was about those two wounds in her leg—casualties were 'relatively low' for an assault of this size with such short notice in the planning phase. However, the mission was so simple and so straightforward that he doubted a longer planning phase could have improved things.

Her Lordship was satisfied with this. I think she made some sort of arrangement, with the Captain facilitating, to show the troops she'd led that her appreciation of their support was not limited to another good speech. If I had to guess, staggered rotations away from Taris for a few days would be enacted, regardless of who had leave coming up.

I was forcibly reminded that her regard of the military was a strength and not a weakness—they're a resource most Sith don't tap, and there are a lot more Imperial soldiers than there are Sith. They're the backbone of the Empire and not to be disregarded. Not by sensible people, anyway.

Which brought us to this early afternoon engagement which I think Her Lordship looked forward to as much as she might look forward to an idle chat with Darth Baras.

"Indeed," Her Lordship finally said. "I may call upon you again. Hurdenn, and your unthinking obedience will be required."

 _Unthinking_. Good way to put it, though I don't think Hurdenn comprehended the actuality of the remark.

Abruptly, Her Lordship's holocom went off.

The Captain also tensed. I don't think he knows she can accelerate the healing. Put someone in enough pain and their ability to do that sort of thing suffers. By this point though, she can handle the matter.

"Lord Baras?" Her Lordship arched her eyebrows.

" _We must talk, apprentice_ ," Baras said coldly, but it was a chill I recognized as brisk efficiency. " _Immediately and in private._ "

"Of course, my lord. I shall holo you from the _Blight_ in but a moment."

Baras severed the call.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, but duty calls. Jaesa, make my excuses, would you? I should be back shortly but…" she waved a vague hand.

Which meant Her Lordship expected something very serious and didn't want it to be known. Aware as I was that there were still two more individuals on Baras' hit list, I could only surmise that this had to do with one or both of them. "Of course, my lord."

Her Lordship strode off, the Captain following briskly. As soon as they were out of earshot she immediately addressed him.

Inwardly I sighed, then hitched a more pleasant expression onto my face and braced myself for Hurdenn's flattery… partly of me, mostly praise for my master, as if he thought I would convey his empty commentaries to Her Lordship's ears.

Ugh. This man is annoying.

Fortunately, with the guest of honor gone, it wasn't hard for me to break up the party… it was just a little time-consuming.

 **Midterm Exams I**

My holocom pinged gently just as the after-action party finished breaking up. When I activated it, I found Lt. Pierce (who'd avoided the party like a case of Bothan nether rot) on the other end. "Lieutenant?" It took effort not to sound blankly surprised, partly since I hadn't expected to see him there and mostly because I certainly hadn't given him my contact frequency.

" _Sorry to bother you, m'lord, but Her Lordship's left orders._ "

I frowned at him. "She knows she only needs to tell me what she wants. Why involve you?" I had to work not to add 'no offense' or sound too snooty.

Pierce ignored any possibly unpleasant tone. " _Her Lordship's gone. Left Taris quick and in a hurry with the Twi'lek and that Captain. Left me a holo for you, but said not to play it over an open channel._ "

She… left? She took everyone else and _left_? Why? A cold feeling settled into my stomach. Suddenly Taris seemed a lot bigger, a lot colder, and a lot scarier—a feat, since we were just getting to the warmest part of the day.

"I'll be there shortly," I declared.

" _I'll be in the cantina._ " With that, Pierce severed the call.

I made my way back to the garrison fighting harder and harder not to show my upset. Why would she just leave like that? I thought I was a _good_ apprentice, someone she could rely on. Why leave me here on Taris?

Or was it just that whatever Baras wanted simply couldn't wait for me to finish making her excuses? It was possible… and seemed a little more likely than scenarios cooked up by my insecurities. If Her Lordship had a problem with me she'd let me know and do it in no uncertain terms. She's done it before.

Pierce was hard to miss, even if he sat near the back of the cantina, facing the door. "M'lord." He set a holo-recording on the table.

I sat down and cued it, Her Lordship appearing in miniature. " _I'm so sorry Jaesa, but it was necessary to depart immediately—one of Baras' assignments unexpectedly began and I couldn't wait for you to extricate yourself. I hope you won't think I left you behind casually. As it is, perhaps it's for the best. I have work for you and you may get more out of it without me looming over your shoulder. As Lt. Pierce has been given to me, I have assigned him to assist you—he's been briefed._ " Which means she's put him on probation.

I glanced sidelong at the lieutenant, who watched Her Lordship intently. Or maybe she makes it look that way; this is a man who will fight all the harder for something he wants—and work harder to keep it once he has it—if it's made more difficult to obtain. " _I was in talks with a certain Darth Gravus before Baras called me away. You'll go to him and tell him I sent you. Fulfill his objectives. I'm certain you'll be more than adequate for whatever it is he needs done. Good luck, Jaesa. Enjoy your first taste of operational freedom. We'll discuss the exercise when I return._ " With that, spoken in a reassuring tone that expected pleasing results, the recording ceased.

The fear of having been left for being substandard abated, but new nervousness filled the empty places it left. Until now, for all these months, Her Lordship has been somewhere, waiting for me to explain myself or to nudge my thinking in more constructive directions. Now, I had only myself. I would be obeying a Darth I didn't know, whose policies and politics I didn't know, on a ruined world like this one. And I'd only get feedback from my mentor when she got back… what if she didn't like how I handled things? What if I screwed it up?

I mentally shook myself. Her Lordship wouldn't have left such specific instructions if she didn't believe I could cope with what I'd be told to do. I swallowed hard, but got to my feet, willing myself not to show any concern. "Do you know where this Darth is, Pierce?" I asked simply.

Pierce got to his feet, looming over me. "I do. Ready when you are."

I suppose he'll be useful if I need any heavy lifting done.

Within four steps I'd smacked that thought down; it was a gross misrepresentation of the soldier's value and one I'd better not allow to gain any roots in my mind. Her Lordship would have told Pierce to go swallow his blaster (although more politely) if she hadn't wanted him. And he was a good fighter, a front-line battering ram to the Captain's neat surgical approach.

Besides, Her Lordship executed operations with a single officer for support. What was good enough for her was more than good enough for me.

 **Midterm Exams II**

Darth Gravus was fragile, ancient, and heavily modified with cybernetics. He spoke in a low, soft tone as if his throat had been damaged… but more than that I had the feeling he wasn't one who needed to raise his voice. He had a calm deliberation similar to Her Lordship's and I could see why she left me to help him.

Baras couldn't be disobeyed and I'd concluded that if she thought I was ready for a little room to act as I saw fit, then there was no reason for her not to obey her master immediately as was expected of an apprentice while leaving me to handle this other thing she considered worth our joint efforts.

It was quite a compliment, I thought, to be let off my safety rope. I didn't feel ready, but birds in their nests don't feel ready to fly until their parents push them out. And I had Pierce, who would fall in line whether he liked my choices or not. So I wasn't exactly alone in this… endeavor.

By the time I was able to stand there and regard this quiet Darth, I felt very content with the state of the galaxy… if not the state of this world. But discomfort carries more lessons than comfort, and at least the mosquitoes left me alone. I couldn't say the same thing for poor Pierce, though.

What is it with these bugs having a taste for Imperial officers? Leave the poor Captain here any longer and he'll need a transfusion (or a rescue).

Gravus regarded me thoughtfully, his head slightly cocked, his expression one of impersonal judgment. "Yes," he nodded. "Yes, I believe you shall do well enough. It was generous of your master to take such an interest in Tarisian affairs."

I took this to mean that she bothered to let me handle whatever-it-was rather than leave him shorthanded because Baras wasn't a man to be disobeyed or kept waiting. "How may I serve, my lord?"

"You may lend your lightsaber to Taris' destruction, of course," Gravus answered simply.

I smiled at him, my very best innocent smile. "Taris will be a wasteland when I am finished, my lord." This was, I'd realized, my first real opportunity to test what I'd come to call my 'mask of flesh.' It annoyed me to have realized it so late, but better I catch on sooner rather than later.

The average Sith is considered to be a bloodthirsty, short-sighted, almost psychotic creature—there are certainly a lot that really are like that. I intended to _show_ that… but with a cool edge. I didn't need to foam at the mouth, after all. Her Lordship would probably object to a public face like that.

An apprentice reflects upon her master.

"Excellent," Gravus answered, his smile perfect. Perfectly empty, that is. Is it just me, or do most Darths seem to be fairly cool and calculating, not at all like the 'rage and hate' mentality drilled into apprentices? I wonder if it's a quirk of training: those who rise learn to harness or channel the rage and hate, leaving the mind clear for other things. Or maybe I just haven't met enough Darths to get a good representation of them. "I remember when I burned with such passion. Now, as you may or may not know, the Republic is trying to rebuild Taris. I have come to see them driven off this world… and to see this world reduced to ruin."

A Sith bombed this place to rubble centuries ago. The funny part is that for all his bombardment, he failed to kill the people he was after. I don't know how many hundreds of thousands of lives were lost and yet he failed to kill two people. And then, of course, they came back and killed him. A nice little lesson for posterity.

"Your mission is simple: swat down the Republic artillery. The bombardments of our base give them hope."

My smile widened. "Then I shall crush that hope."

"A good first step, young apprentice." That was all the dismissal he offered.

"Do you know where these guns are?" I asked Pierce, once we were away from Gravus.

"Should hope I do," Pierce answered in his customarily blunt fashion. "I know Imperial-held Taris. Good bit of Republic-held, too. I can get you there, no problem."

"Good. Then let's cause some damage."

Pierce grinned at this. "Right behind you, m'lord."

 **Midterm Exams III**

It was strange being in battle without Her Lordship slamming her weight around. I don't think I ever really appreciated just how much work she did during an engagement. Pierce was big into destruction though, so it wasn't as though I was on my own… but I did feel like _I_ was doing a lot more work than usual.

He also knew how to rig a good explosion: those guns weren't coming back online anytime soon. Not without serious hardware repair. Remembering that Her Lordship and I agreed that we needed a demolitions expert on the team—to turn 'boom' into 'BOOM!'—I made a mental note.

It was late, but Gravus was still awake, clearly waiting for me to report back in before retiring.

"The artillery has been dismantled, my lord," I announced simply after bowing politely to him.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself," he noted, looking me over.

I was still sweaty and muggy from the swamps, overheated from exercise and humidity, and covered in mud and grime… and had taken more than a few superficial injuries, which I'd done my best to repair. I would have been in a bad mood if I wasn't so pleased with our work.

"Do you know, I wonder, why we're fighting over this swamp?"

"If Taris is recolonized, the Republic will have a strategic foothold, a place where they can fuel and resupply their ships. It would also show that the Empire can knock something over but that the Republic will always come back and rebuild—no matter how many centuries it takes," I answered briskly.

"Very—" I think he meant to say something agreeable, but he was cut off by a feminine voice that dripped with self-satisfaction.

I turned to look, feeling the Force ripple around her. She was powerful, this redheaded Sith in her heavy black armor. She looked so condescending and swaggered—it was a kind of slinky strut, anyway—so obviously that I took a strong and immediate dislike to her. "I'm back, Master," she announced, casting me a look of displeasure as if she couldn't figure out why I was here. "I slaughtered every one of them then crushed their artillery." She paused here and there in her speech as if waiting for applause or some other form of admiration.

She did what to which now?

Pierce snorted softly, but both Gravus and this twit ignored him.

"A fascinating little story, to be sure," Gravus answered dryly. "Unfortunately, the _true_ destroyer of the Republic artillery stands before you."

Her smiled faltered and turned to disgust as Gravus waved vaguely at me. I simply grinned at her, showing far too many teeth to be considered a smile of mere politeness.

"Thana Vesh, Jaesa Willsaam. She is the latest addition to my circle," Gravus said in a tone suggesting he knew we'd loathe one another on principle. That could only mean we'd be played against one another to some degree. It was just a little claw-sharpening, not meant to be a _sanctioned_ fight-to-the-death thing. We weren't vying for position in Gravus' retinue, after all.

Thana's pretty face twisted into a grimace as she pointed at me with a finger. It wasn't nearly as dramatic or expressive as when Her Lordship does the same thing with an unignited lightsaber. "Hunt in my territory again and you're dead."

"It's not really yours if you can't hold it," I answered simply. "Don't blame me for your short reach."

Thana exploded like an unstable bomb. Behind me, Pierce shifted nervously, probably looking from Gravus to Thana and wondering how he was supposed to react in a room full of Sith—one of them volatile. "That's it!" She had her lightsaber free and ignited in a trice.

Touchy… and the explosion caught me a little off-guard. I know about the usual brand of Sith—like Thana seems to be—but I'm not accustomed to dealing with them. I'm accustomed to Sith like Gravus and Her Lordship, people of quality.

I twitched my fingers, envisioning little high-speed currents of water full of air bubbles wrapping around a large piece of equipment. It trembled behind as I delicately lifted it. I could hit her with it before she got to me. It would be nonlethal, but I could follow up with something lethal if I needed to.

"Save your anger, Thana," Gravus said, sounding distinctly bored, his eyes flicking the trembling equipment and back. "Our focus must be on bringing down the Republic's military leader, Kom Orda. We will drive the Republic off Taris. I _not_ tolerate _anyone_ working counter to that end." He narrowed his eyes, expression going from placidly dismissive to dead serious.

I let the equipment settle silently back into place as Thana, looking livid—so much so that the red spots in her cheeks ceased to be a purely cosmetic effect—replaced the weapon at her belt. But she glared murder at me.

Someone's awfully touchy; who spit in her rations? Or is she just _that_ insecure?

"Only the weak flee," I agreed, though I gave Thana the kind of hint-hint look Her Lordship sometimes uses. Or I tried to.

Anger began to sheet off Thana like body odor off a sweaty rancor. She had a lot of anger piled up, but from what I could tell, she just let it radiate, didn't bother directing it in any particular way. That's just sloppy. She puffs up like a small creature hoping to scare off a predator by looking bigger than it really is… the only difference is that Thana is already dangerous. So why does she need to waste energy making sure even a stupid, non-Sensitive would know it?

Is this what Her Lordship feels like most of the time? Critical and justified in that criticism because of experience and repeated observation?

"And that is why we shall win," Gravus inclined his head approvingly. "But first, we must strip Orda of his strength. Republic troops are in short supply this far from the base, so Orda has taken to arming Cathar settlers." Gravus activated a nearby holomap, showing where we were in relation to the target he had in mind.

I could see why he was sending us now: we'd arrive in the very early morning when the settlers would still be mostly sleeping. More chaos would ensue with this sort of ambush than one at midday when everyone was up and alert already.

"Those beasts are vicious enough without Republic weapons."

They have a reason to be: the Mandalorians overran the Cathar homeworld. These settlers won't want to be dislodged again—not by the Empire. Not that the Mandalorians really belong to the Empire. They're like cats: they might live in the Empire's space but they do whatever they want to do. It's one of the reasons the Empire can be so critical of them: the Mandalorians are an independent bunch and working with the Empire is simply _convenient_ to them.

"They must be neutralized," Gravus concluded.

Thana had recovered herself, that smug self-importance settling back over her with a little toss of her head. The gesture irritated me for no reason I could give. It simply _did_.

…this is going to be a long assignment.

I opened my mouth but she cut me off. "Don't even bother. You'll just screw it up," she snapped. " _I_ will lead the massacre."

"You couldn't lead a thirsty nerf to a riverbank," I shot back promptly, to Pierce's stifled amusement.

Thana cast him a nasty look, but not nearly as nasty as the one she shot me.

"Your failure with the artillery has earned you a secondary assignment," Gravus inserted without raising his voice. His mouth had twisted into an odd line, hinting he was paying close attention to how Thana and I interacted, feeling at us, at our emotions, through the Force as we reacted to stimuli.

I almost wished I knew what he was thinking about me.

Thana's expression could have curdled milk. "…as you wish…"

Gravus arched his eyebrows.

"… _master_." Once she ground out the word, Gravus silently indicated she should withdraw and wait for instruction.

She's an unstable one. I wouldn't want to work with her; I marvel at Gravus for being patient enough to do so.

"Now, Jaesa, you will go and remove this Cathar threat. Then we shall be one step closer to Orda's defeat."

Her Lordship would normally have said something like 'there won't be a heart left beating' and smiled. Unfortunately, I don't have the same… sense of presence. And Thana's bravado and bluster left me in a sour mood. "Their deaths will be an example to those who think to rebuild Taris," I answered simply, then inclined my head.

Gravus smiled at this. "Go, then. We have a message—be my messenger."

I bowed politely and withdrew, taking the silent Pierce with me… while making a mental note to leave him outside the room next time for his own comfort. I would hate for him to get sucked into something he needn't be.

Like if Thana decides to act stupid as opposed to being that way naturally.

 **Midterm Exams IV**

I didn't trip over Thana as I expected I would. She was so conspicuously absent that I began to feel prickles on the back of my neck. I suppose it's something all Sith learn to endure and cope with, the possibility of attack. At least I knew it was probably coming. She seems the type to fly off the handle, if prodded enough; the kind of person who ends up doing something incredibly stupid because she stopped _thinking_.

It made me appreciate the different styles of Sith—Lord Augustine and Her Lordship versus Darth Baras and Darth Gravus versus Thana. The powerful ones don't barrel about like angry nerfs; they're quiet, composed, focused. Anger is a tool, not a crutch or a habit.

Gravus was dozing lightly in a big chair in his command center—obviously brought in for his convenience. He wasn't going to lose sleep while his agents were in the field, but he wasn't going to put himself in a position to have to tell someone 'I'm never _that_ asleep!' because someone didn't want to wake him up with a mission update.

"I hope you have good news for me," Gravus said before opening his eyes and resettling himself in his chair, as if he'd been waiting rather than dozing (though I suppose, technically, he was doing both). It reminded me of snakes and lizards: they look asleep, but you never know whether they really are or not until you get too close.

"It is as you required and the message to the Republic is the same one I gave Thana: it isn't yours if you can't hold it," I answered, hoping I sounded calmly certain and secure, the way Her Lordship does when completing an assignment on or below her capabilities.

"Oh, _very_ witty," came Thana's voice.

"You're late," I declared deprecatingly. "I was so sure I'd trip over you… or your corpse, I suppose." The dismissive tone made her aura spasm. She wasn't used to being downplayed, marginalized, dismissed as being a minor threat. Not that I actually _did_ consider her a minor threat, but it's all about what _she_ believes.

"I've brought a friend," Thana said as she flounced into the room as well as a woman wearing enough armor to outfit a tank could be said to flounce. She'd probably been waiting for an opportunity to make a dramatic entrance. It might have been a decent one if it hadn't been so obvious and contrived.

She'd brought with her a very sorry-looking Republic soldier, who looked like he'd seen drastically better days. Battered and bloody, he hunkered down where she threw him, looking nervously from Sith to Sith and wondering which of us was worst.

"He's one of Orda's guards. We had… a little fun together. It wasn't until I killed his comrades that we _really_ started bonding," Thana cooed, combing her fingers through his hair as if she was petting a dog.

"That pause would have been more dramatic if you'd left me wondering what you were going to say next," I observed, smirking when anger popped and fizzled around her.

"Go on, officer," Thana said, trying to sound as sweetly smug as before and not quite succeeding. "Spill your story—and no whimpering this time."

I rolled my eyes.

"Commander Orda," the soldier began softly, "…he's got w-walkers hidden near his base. They'll ambush anyone who attacks. It's all I know, please—"

Thana's lightsaber was in her hand and at the man's neck, causing him to gabble afresh. It was a quick move, precise, but a little jerky as if she had to work not to just kill him because that was what usually happened when she swung her blade. She's fast, I'll give her that… but she might lack some of the discipline I've been made to emulate.

"Okay, okay!" the soldier yelped, his voice breaking. "The walkers can't be detected by probes, only Orda's top operatives have the coordinates for them! And those are encoded!"

Gravus' mouth had twisted into a grim line of disapproval. "Is this really the best you could manage, Thana?" he demanded, indicating the soldier with a delicate gesture of his fingers. "A lowly officer with secondhand information?"

"Are you quite certain you didn't kill one of the lieutenants while leveraging this weak thing into compliance?" I asked, crossing my arms. I remembered that nameless Imperial from the Fleet, the one I couldn't remember if I'd killed or not, how Her Lordship had been so disappointed with my failure to be aware of my situation. It had never happened again and nothing ever came of it, but I remembered.

Thana moistened her lips, but didn't answer, which I took to mean she picked a weak link and hammered on him until he broke and didn't really care or pay attention to anyone she killed—probably because she feels she _has_ to kill _anyone_ who gives her a real fight. It highlighted something Her Lordship had impressed upon me: _always_ know who it is you're killing.

"Well?" Gravus asked the soldier. "Did my erstwhile apprentice make such a grave error in judgment?"

The soldier swallowed hard. He didn't actually answer, but anyone with eyes could tell he didn't answer because he was afraid Thana would explode all over the place when the truth came out.

"Oops," I murmured, mostly for dramatic effect.

Thana's head snapped around to glare at me, like a snake lunging to bite. Her nostrils flared and her eyes seemed to burn in their sockets.

She's so _easy_ to provoke. I could turn this into a game. It might be fun for a while.

"It doesn't matter. I shall attack Orda's base and rip those walkers apart myself," Thana declared.

"Commit suicide as it pleases you," I answered snidely.

Thana's expression twitched. " _Don't_ underestimate my power," she growled, glaring murder at me. She took several steps closer, hoping to intimidate by the gesture. I could feel her power crawl unpleasantly over my skin.

Calm indifference wasn't something she was used to, nor the easy ripostes, the dismissive putdowns of our 'conversation' so far. That I refused to be intimidated by someone bigger than me didn't do her any favors. "Those who have to bark so loudly about it are either highly insecure… or not nearly as powerful as they want others to believe." After all, Her Lordship never barks about her strength, which is formidable. She doesn't need to be recognized as powerful; she simply _is_ and people realize that in short order.

I struck a nerve though, and if I saw it Gravus certainly did. Interacting with Thana like this brought forward the practicality of another of Her Lordship's practices: her emphasis on not letting people get under my skin, on keeping a cool head at all times. I had the power right now because Thana was angry rather than dismissing the opinion of someone she scarcely cared about.

I certainly didn't care about _her_ opinion. After all, who was she to me, really? Just a threat, but threats can be managed. Their _opinions_ count for very little.

"Now, Thana, you will wait here for further instruction." Thana looked as though Gravus just smacked her. "Jaesa, you know what you need to do: slay Orda's operatives, take their coordinate codes, and come back here. Our bomber squadrons will destroy the walkers. One final item of note," Gravus indicated I should wait, rather than stalk off immediately—it showed he was used to dealing with Thana, since I'd made no move to leave before formally dismissed. "As your minion may know, these operatives have slaughtered many Imperial troops, so don't hold back. We must send a mess—"

"No!" Thana suddenly exploded, finally getting past choking on her own indignation. "I've wasted enough time _enslaved_ to you, Gravus," she sneered, her pretty features actually twisting into something ugly. Fires seemed to burn behind her eyes, baleful and malevolent. I found myself tensing; Her Lordship sometimes gets that look, but it's a slow burn rather than Thana's flaring. "Enjoy your new _pet_." She actually _spat_ at me! Lucky for her it fell short by some distance. "I'm my _own_ woman." With that, and another toss of her hair, she flounced out.

Gravus chuckled softly as, from the hall, came a nasty crunching sound. I moved to the door to check that it wasn't Pierce and was half glad it wasn't. If she'd damaged him, I'd be obliged to do something about her. I'd like that just because she irritates me, but I think I could goad Thana into a fight if I really wanted to at some future date. Her Lordship wouldn't approve of Pierce being damaged by someone's out of control apprentice.

"And my eager apprentice breaks her leash," he sighed. "Thana's strength with the Force is _magnificent_ , but she's only focused when prodded into a rage."

Good to know, if I ever have to fight her. But all I see is potential strength being wasted by gushing out uncontrolled from the source. She's got no discipline, just a head full of steam powering a rampage and that's not enough to make a successful Sith.

Still, I know not to minimize the danger she poses, not just to me since she hates me so much but to my mission. She's the sort to try sabotage. Beyond even that, she's _just_ the type who would damage Imperial operations because she got her panties in a twist. Short-sighted. I _won't_ let her jeopardize the bigger picture.

If apprentices on Korriban learn to kill one another discreetly or deniably, then I think I just walked into a Korriban-style lesson. Her Lordship will be pleased if I can bring the story to her—I think she'll be surprised I tripped into the opportunity, as it's not something one can plan for.

She tries so hard to ensure I can compete with a Korriban-trained Sith. This mission is affording all sorts of training and opportunities.

These days, I love being me. It's gratifying to discover that I can do things and what the breadth of 'things' really is.

"But I see she's abandoned her poor friend, here," Gravus remarked, regarding the soldier with that bland disinterest. "We'll have to dispose of him."

The soldier's aura began to squirm as he tried to muster the courage necessary for facing Sith-style execution.

"If I may, my lord," I waited until Gravus indicated I might proceed. "Give him to the Imperial Armed Forces. He's useless to us at this point, but he might be of use to them. He can always be killed, but dead he offers no advantage or chance of gaining one." I honestly didn't care if he lived or died; I cared that Her Lordship would expect me to look beyond easy, immediate solutions.

Gravus considered this, then nodded. "I suppose your point is valid. Force knows our Imperial allies could use any help they can get." He sniffed, then wrinkled his nose as if he found the lake for which the garrison was named as objectionable as anyone could.

"In the meantime, I'll put in a good word for him when I see Orda." I bowed, then withdrew.

"Good on you, turning the scout over," Pierce noted in that blunt, frank way of his, once we were out of Gravus' earshot.

"Thank you."

"Sith bitch is gonna be trouble."

"I expect so. Are you concerned?"

Pierce considered this, then twitched his shoulders. "Her Lordship wouldn't leave this mission to you if she thought you couldn't cope with whatever. The crazy Sith's your problem to plan for—I'll follow your lead."

I nodded at this, both approving and a little nervous. Yet again, I found myself pointing out that I am Sith, trained by a particularly fine example of that Order's strength. I'm not that weak little Jedi girl, afraid of her own shadow. Those who live in the dark needn't fear it.

I yawned hugely, which made Pierce sniff.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked darkly, unsure what he meant by it.

He considered me, then shrugged. "Sith might not wear out but soldiers do. Like to grab a couple stims before we go back out. Dunno if Sith use the things, but might as well carry a couple. Can't hurt."

I sensed I could needle him about this, but if I did I wouldn't get a response. He might need the boost but I wasn't stupid: I would, too. I don't know about Thana, but sloppiness breeds mistakes and I'm not going to botch this. Her Lordship might never trust me with anything again.

"Very well. I trust you to make the arrangements."

I knew what that stifled grin meant: I came across as imitating Her Lordship rather than as a competent individual with her own voice.

Ugh.


	28. Chapter 28

**Midterm Exams V**

I didn't think I could get any more sweaty and mucky, but I was wrong. By the time the sun came up and we arrived at the Imperial outpost nearest the Republic's walkers, I felt like a walking piece of swamp. Poor Pierce, though: the mosquitoes liked him more than they liked me.

"Pierce. While I hand over the codes, see what you can do about billeting," I said tiredly. "Preferably billeting with a shower."

"Sound plan," the soldier responded before stomping off. He was a real tank, Pierce, and I was glad to have him. If a Sith like me wasn't scary enough, Pierce's inclusion could put the fear of the Emperor into doubters without my having to exert my power.

There was billeting, a shower, and a meal—and I was glad Her Lordship insisted I carry an overnight pack no matter how close to base I planned to stay. A Sith could never be too careful. In this case, it meant I had a few clean things even if my armor still smelled like swamp and remained a bit damp from it.

Still, the clothes closest to my skin were clean, and that went a long way with me.

 **Midterm Exams VI**

"M'lord? M'lord, wake up," Pierce's voice, muffled by the door, dragged me out of my sleep.

"What?" I demanded, forcing myself to get out of bed, ignoring how groggy and sick I felt. I pushed the door open, still resisting the urge to groan and be fussy.

"Got word that the situation's changed." Pierce answered in place of the little private hanging at his shoulder. The lad watched me with such round-eyed surprise I could tell he was expecting a much older (or uglier) Sith.

He was cute, I thought.

Discreetly, Pierce slipped me a stim. Normally I would have checked to make sure he wasn't trying to poison me, but he's got good reason to avoid things like that—not the least of which, Her Lordship would flay him alive with his own backbone.

Well, maybe not literally, but it was quite the picture.

The stim acted quickly, helping me shake off the stodginess of interrupted sleep.

The captain to whom Pierce led me looked nervous and more than a little upset. "I am sorry to interrupt you, my lord, but the lieutenant indicated you were to be informed of this… incident… and without any delay. Sith Apprentice Vesh commandeered a unit of men and has marched off to attack Kom Orda."

"That twit will get them all killed," I declared darkly.

"It's not my place to say, my lord," the captain answered uncomfortably… uncomfortably because he would have agreed if he could have done so without risk.

"But it _is_ your place to extrapolate."

"In that case, my lord, I expect you are correct."

"Has Darth Gravus been informed?" I asked.

"A message was left, my lord," the captain answered.

It was strange to stand there, a true figure of authority, to whom reports were given and from whom orders were taken. It made my hands shake, and I found the situation not disagreeable.

Thana Vesh—volatile. A useful trait in the short term but highly dangerous in the long term.

"I will not require a troop of my own. Pierce will suffice," I declared briskly, opting to try Her Lordship's usual formality in speech, to see if it really made a difference. "You will, please, provide for me Kom Orda's last known coordinates, a speeder for Pierce's and my use, and the proper equipment for two Imperial soldiers expecting to operate in the field for forty-eight hours. Make haste, Captain—"

The Captain proved to be the smart sort. Apparently, he also shared Pierce's idea that quick action to my directives would be far more pleasing to me than slowed-by-empty-proprieties responses.

Within minutes Pierce and I were on our way.

As for the formality in speech… _I_ felt more comfortable with it than not. I had to weigh words beforehand, but liked the calm authority they brought with them. Something to keep in mind.

 **Midterm Exams VII**

Between having more accurate information and fewer people to drag through a swamp, Pierce and I arrived to barrel to then through Orda's base. Predictably, Thana had broken off from her men, leaving them in disarray, caught between trying to follow the Sith—who had undoubtedly imposed the fact that _she_ was in charge and they should follow—while recognizing that they were outmatched.

"Pierce! Take them in hand!" I barked, deflecting blaster fire with an ease that surprised me. All that practice seemed to be paying off. A rush—and one that threatened to instill overconfidence—surged through me at the sense of steady capability.

It wasn't hard to follow Thana. The sounds of the Imperials rallying around Pierce—whose bellowed orders seemed to reassure the men as much as give them directive—sped me on my way. Pierce would, in all likelihood, have his men dig in and wait, catching anyone we Sith flushed out. It was a decent plan.

…or that was what I would do, I suppose, if I were in his position. He _might_ push them forward, following in Thana's and my wake.

I caught up to Thana, carving my way through a small detachment who had apparently looped around to try catching her from behind. From what I could see, her claims of power were not unfounded… but I still doubted she was as good as she believed. Or maybe I'm simply accustomed to a higher standard.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" Thana demanded, snapping around after felling the last trooper in front of her and finding me having already dispatched the four behind.

"Easy—there was a tremor of idiocy in the Force. I knew it had to be you and I won't have my mission bungled by your ineptitude," I answered pertly.

"Hn." With that, she started off at a jog, as if she meant to lose me.

It didn't work, though we met resistance in waves and I fell behind.

It turned out to be a lucky thing. When I reached Orda's command hub, I was in time to see Thana closing on him.

Orda, having realized his blaster was useless, opened fire again and, while Thana was paying attention to that, produced a small detonator which he dropped, rolling it over to her. It exploded, sending her flying back. When she hit the ground, she twitched and kept breathing, but she was obviously down for the count. She didn't make any feeble attempt to rise.

"You Sith are all alike," Orda sneered, his voice uncomfortably nasal, like General Frellka's was. "Quick to anger… and quick to fall."

"You've certainly got Thana's number." He sounded like a _Jedi_ , which made my mouth twist with dislike, a dislike that pooled in my gut, something I could focus into anger, into hatred, into power, until I felt it practically radiating off me. I was going to kill him and nothing he could do would stop me. He'd be lucky to slow me down.

Orda was younger than I expected, brawny in build, covered in durasteel, his scalp shaved bald but with a full beard and mustache, neither touched with grey. Given his trick with Thana, he's fought Force-users before. "The Republic will not fail here. Taris _will_ rise again."

I reached out through the Force, found that the turbulence of fighting and dying had dimmed. Hopefully that means Pierce has rallied his men.

"I wouldn't get my hopes up, if I were you. The War Trust thought the same thing."

Troopers, looking somewhat the worse for wear, came running in from a side door just in time to hear my jab about the War Trust. It did nothing for their morale, though Orda looked surprised to find himself standing before one of the Sith responsible for such a catastrophic loss as the destruction of the War Trust—at least, it looked like he'd made that connection.

The reinforcements didn't open fire immediately, but they fell in behind Orda, looking ready to fight to the death. Fear and anxiety hung about them like a death shroud… perhaps less reinforcements and more overrun soldiers hoping for backup when the overrunning force arrived?

"For the Republic!" Orda crowed, not possessing the sense of things I had and assuming his men were here because they'd put down the Imperial invasion.

I was faster, sending blaster bolts flying back at those who sent them at me—though I still lacked the finesse to repurpose the bolts reliably. It would be something to work on once I was back on the ship.

Orda made a beginner's mistake: while I was blocking fire from three directions, and as more troopers—clearly overrun—came charging in, he tried the same trick on me he'd pulled on Thana.

Ready for it, I sent the detonator flying back at him. The device landed at his feet just as Pierce, panting like a winded nerf but looking totally fit for the fight and eager to continue it, barreled in with a dozen men behind him.

Orda looked away from the detonator for a split second and it went off with a terrific bang, the shockwaves in the air breaking against everyone present.

"For the Empire!" I crowed. "Leave Orda alive!"

"You heard the Sith!" Pierce barked.

I stayed out of the way, walking calmly over to Thana as the Imperials revisited their losses upon the Republic troopers—a little too zealously, for Pierce had to snarl at them (accompanied by a sound like someone being knocked to the ground) to remember that Orda was to be preserved… for now.

Thana was beginning to come out of her daze, which stopped my investigation of her.

"Ugh… my head…" she slurred, looking around for her lightsaber.

When I turned, I found Pierce holding Orda almost by the scruff of the neck. Orda's armor showed several holes, all of which bled freely.

"I require a medkit," I declared to the room at large, but without barking the order. Her Lordship usually only raises her voice to ensure she's heard, but even when she doesn't people listen up when they hear her. It's part of how she presents strength and control. "Plug those leaks—I don't want him dying before I've finished with him."

An Imperial immediately bustled up and employed the most basic of measures to keep Orda from bleeding out.

"Cheap trick, Orda," Thana sneered, swaggering over to us.

Pierce stiffened at her approach, and dislike radiated off the Imperials she'd brought with her… but with the exception of Pierce, no one seemed willing to show it. Wise, on the whole, and Pierce is with me—and I'm with Her Lordship. Thana's not as stupid about everything as she is about battlefields. She can't be.

"If you don't kill him, _I_ will," Thana warned, igniting her lightsaber as though unsheathing a claw.

"I know this will be difficult for you," I answered calmly, "but don't be stupid. He can be killed later. He'll talk first, and talk to those who know which questions to ask." Orda, pale with blood loss or fear, looked from Thana to me, probably wondering which way to go—her way or mine—would be easier.

Thana's expression twisted into distaste. "I knew you were a weak coward the moment I saw you."

"You act as though your opinion matters to me. Pierce, bundle Orda back to the garrison, you may take the speeder. I will follow along. Ensure that Orda—"

"Belay that order," Thana snarled.

Pierce didn't look particularly rattled by Thana's attempts to usurp the handling of him, but anyone with a sense for such things could feel his 'yeah, yeah, whatever' attitude when it came to her orders. He'll need to learn to guard himself better, I thought as Thana's mouth went thin.

"Ensure that Orda arrives in one piece and is received by the appropriate individuals," I repeated calmly. Then, to Thana, "My master is Darth Baras' most distinguished apprentice—Lord Hellanix Balanchine-Renault." The name seemed to mean something to her, although Thana was much younger than Her Lordship—everyone seems to know who Baras is. "As I am her proxy, and as you serve no particular master, _my_ preferences will be entertained." Impishness won the day: smiling at her and waving the Imperials to a safe distance. "Unless you'd like to argue the point in a more… concrete… fashion?"

For a moment I thought she really would do it. She certainly didn't like the idea of backing down and being seen to back down, especially when everyone knows soldiers are great gossips. Well, anyone who pays attention.

Finally, she sniffed. "Your weakness will damn you."

"Run along, Thana. And have the good graces not to damage _my_ troopers." With that, and knowing how risky it was, I turned my back on her. "I would like to speak to the commanding officer of this unit."

To my surprise, Thana actually didn't knock anyone around as she left. I expected her to call my bluff, giving me a reason to fight her, but she didn't. I was a little disappointed, but the mission took priority. And I had the strong feeling that we'd come to blows eventually. Thus, I had the pleasure of winding her up again and again until she absolutely couldn't think straight.

"Here, m'lord," he answered promptly, presenting himself with a bow.

"Whatever the standard procedure is for securing a facility like this one must be employed immediately. I leave it to you. Only, contact your commanding officer and let him know your status, that Orda is _en route_ in my man Pierce's care, and that I shall arrive soon, myself."

"Yes, m'lord," the soldier answered promptly and with some sincerity.

"Meanwhile, I require one of your men to lead me back to the garrison."

"Michaels!"

A burly sergeant, shoulder bloody from a blaster bolt, appeared. Although he favored the shoulder, it was clear he was on enough stims or adrenals or whatever not to feel it too much. "Sir."

"Take Her Lordship back to the garrison as quickly as possible. I'm sure this facility has extra speeders."

It was weird to hear the title usually applied to my master applied to me. A little too weird and I found myself reaching out through the Force to feel for her. She was far away and either didn't register the ripples my investigation sent out or she ignored them. It was probably best, whichever it was.

Michaels saluted. "If you'll wait one moment, my lord, I'll make the arrangements.

I nodded, and he was off like a shot as the lieutenant continued organizing his men and securing the facility.

 **Midterm Exams VIII**

Darth Gravus was not critical of my foresight in making use of Orda—as I said of the scout, he can always be killed later but killing him immediately removed a potential resource and one should never waste a potential resource—though I wondered if he doubted my motives.

Then again, some Sith can be very narrow minded. Like Thana.

Also, it appeared, I was the more successful killer of Republic soldiers. It was an off-handed remark that told me Thana had meant to make this a little competition to see who was more effective when it came to thinning the Republic ranks. I didn't ask if the Imperials lent me their individual body counts to pad my own, but apparently Thana was _quite_ upset.

I couldn't help remembering Vemrin and my master: she took everything he had, tore everything he accomplished down around his ears, then killed him. Hopefully my results will prove just as effective. I'd like to think my handling of Taris—and these odd similarities to her own Korriban experiences—would please her.

Gravus, having no further use for me, sent me to a man called Melkor Din.

I found Din in a quiet corner of yet another far-flung outpost. Like Gravus, Din had heavy cybernetic modification—perhaps to correct blindness. His dark skin showed fewer Dark Side ravages than Gravus' did. He also had the smooth manner of a career toady, which I found objectionable.

"Now, I believe you are the one Darth Gravus spoke of? You are the one come to help stop the Republic… and take care of our rakghoul threat?"

"An enemy is an enemy. I try not to discriminate," I answered.

"Ah," Din exhaled slowly, his attention wandering over me as he slowly nodded his approval. "I can see why Lord Gravus likes you. So very pragmatic. So very practical. Most people find the barest mention of rakghouls… discomforting." And he watched to see if I evidenced any discomfort at this second invocation of the rakghouls.

I've seen rakghouls, even fought them while traversing Taris with Her Lordship. They were men once, but now they are monsters. Sith creations, they eventually began to breed and have become a fixture of Taris. Their bite is infectious, but there are a great many things in nature that can kill you with one good chomp—or even a scratch, some say. So, except for the 'used to be people' bit they aren't much more frightening than a nexu or a krayt dragon.

"The rakghouls swarm the sewers, tearing apart anyone or anything that gets near them. It has become a genuine problem."

I was still a bit fuzzy on why the sewers were even important, but I kept my mouth shut. Often, a Sith will explain him- or her-self given enough time. They like to talk, as Her Lordship has remarked before, and not always as the opening to a battle meant to rasp away at the opponent before blows begin to fall.

"Serves you right!" the woman in the nearest containment cell snarled. "Sith created the rakghouls to begin with—" Her vitriol disappeared in a scream of pain as Din coolly and remorselessly pressed the activation button for the shock collar the woman wore.

I didn't look away at risk of being perceived as squeamish, but I'd have liked to. It's not a pretty sight.

"Mola's tongue often is too free. She is, however, correct." With that, he released the button, leaving Mola panting and twitching in her cell. "Although they are a Sith creation, the Republic has had the gall to make use of them against us, herding them into our forces."

I appreciate the irony. "How are they controlling the beasts? I thought the rakghouls were unmanageable?" I glanced at Pierce. Now _he_ looked grim and uncomfortable about the mention of rakghouls. He nodded once in affirmation, crossing his arms as he scowled at Din as though to counterbalance his discomfort.

"Mola has been kind enough to tell us of a reactor the Republic is decommissioning. She _claims_ they direct the rakghouls by releasing trace amounts of toxic waste from the reactor core which sends the enraged beasts running for safety…" Din gestured rather than finish the sentence since he obviously didn't need to.

"Right into our troops. Ingenious, if it's true." I glanced at Mola, a thin woman who looked as though she'd been enjoying Din's hospitality for no short time. She had dark shadows under her eyes and whatever bravado she scraped together, peel it back as Din had just done and one saw the truth: she showed bravado when she could scrape it together because there was nothing else she could do.

"It's true," she answered, voice raspy. "I saw their aversion to reactor leakage when I studied rakghoul migration patterns." She pushed herself to her knees, still twitching. "Exposure produced adverse effects."

I moved up to the cage and took a knee, putting myself on a level with her. "Tell me how to wipe those monsters out or I'll feed you to them piece by piece while you scream." It wouldn't be pleasant, but oddly I found the idea less disturbing than use of the shock collar. Maybe because, in some ways, the collar lacks finesse. Or maybe it's just so hands-off and a Sith, at least, should be definitive enough not to require such a crude tool as Din seemed to.

The situation on Alderaan was quite different.

Mola went pale, her nostrils flaring, eyes widening. She examined my face and decided I wasn't joking… and from Din's silence that he had no objections. "Please!" Her eyes filled with a sparkling film.

I said nothing, merely regarded her.

"There's only one thing I can think of, but it hasn't been tested—" Mola hesitated.

"This isn't academic research," Din declared flatly. "Take your best guess… or it will be your last."

Not so broken then, as to find death preferable to Din's continuing hospitality. I didn't think Din would really kill her yet, either: he's too fond of pushing that button.

Mola swallowed, then regarded her knees. "During the studies we performed, radiation leakage drove them mad. Poison the rakghouls and they'll turn on everyone—you, us, each other. Everyone."

"Perfect," Din declared pleasantly. "We blow up the chemical stashes, poison the lot. The rakghouls are too busy feasting on Republic flesh to bother with us." He clapped his hands together enthusiastically.

What's this 'we' stuff? I'm the one doing the field work.

"If the chemicals don't enrage the rakghouls, I shall return in a very, _very_ bad mood," I declared simply.

Mola studied me, but it was clear she was still more afraid of Din. Understandable, since he had the control to her shock collar. "I never lie about my work," she said softly.

"That may be," Din declared, "but I'm not done with you yet."

"I, on the other hand, am—for the time being." With that I swept out, Pierce following.

"I hate those raks," he growled. "Give anyone nightmares."

"They're just poisonous monsters," I answered simply.

"As used to be men. Pardon me, m'lord, but not all of us haven't lost friends to those things," he noted a little grimly.

"Are you saying you'd rather not go?"

"Just saying not to let the little bastards get in close. Or underestimate 'em."

I paused, looking up at Pierce's grave expression. I was about to tell him I never underestimate my enemies, but decided it would be clichéd. Rather, I nodded. "You've been on Taris longer than I have; perhaps you're right, Lieutenant. We'll be careful." The words, so reminiscent of Her Lordship, came so quickly that I found it unnerving.

The promise of care didn't make him happy, but he didn't look quite so grim. A response not unreminiscent of the Captain when Her Lordship defers to him on matters of safety.

…hmm. I think I might have been missing something there.

I considered Pierce was we traveled. Surly and blunt, I found him difficult to work with. No, not _difficult_ ; I simply found him _unapproachable_. It struck me as something I ought to be aware of, this lack of rapport… and it occurred to me that Her Lordship would probably expect me to present a report on Pierce, since I'd worked with him and she hadn't.

Not without direct orders from Baras to execute, that is.

Telling her I didn't have a clear picture of the man, or anything to say about him on way or another, stuck me as a bad thing. "Forgive me for neglecting to ask earlier, Pierce. Perhaps you would take this moment brief me about our last mission. Your arrival with the men was quite timely."

That I'd asked surprised him. It showed. "Debrief's what comes after the mission's done, m'lord. They were shaken up by that crazy Sith. Woman had no head for tactics—just tugged them along like a kid with balloons so she could make a good showing. Figured the 'Pubs were the same idiots they're said to be. They're scum, but they're dug in here and good enough to stay alive once they did. That should've told her something. Like bring a bigger frikkin' army," Pierce huffed. "Once you got in there and started in on them, it took the pressure off us enough to get a foothold. Apparently two Sith was more than the 'Pubs bargained for and they started breaking. Then we pushed through. Wasn't hard to follow the ones who ran—they headed right to the fella in charge."

"That was excellent work," I nodded. "I worried about casualties, but it seems you were able to mitigate them."

"Be surprised how well a soldier can do his job when he's allowed," Pierce answered gruffly, with no animosity towards me… though his aura prickled.

"That sounds rather like personal experience."

"It is." But he didn't elaborate.

"You mentioned you were—are—black ops."

He was happy to talk—brag, actually—about that topic, swelling with pride as he did so. The topic unlocked him: he wasn't a glory hound, exactly. Glory hounds just want to get noticed. Pierce's distinction was that he wanted to be noticed because he did his job—the toughest, hardest, most dangerous assignments— _well_. He might desire personal glory, but what he really wanted was glory for his black ops team. He was such a contrast to the Captain that I entertained mild concerns about having both men on the ship at the same time.

But he was a bit chattier, and I was able to gain insight into him. Eventually he explained, without prompting, his comment about soldiers being allowed to do their jobs; as might be expected, Hurdenn figured into the story prominently. He wanted to serve (and he was a man who liked to pick his handlers whenever possible and alienate the ones he didn't pick so they'd kick him to the curb when they tired of his attitude). Specifically, he wanted to serve Her Lordship—there might have been some non-professional appreciation, but it was _quite_ a secondary thing.

Sith approval is hard to garner, and I think the challenge therein appealed to him. Her Lordship's an exacting taskmaster. The Captain gets along with her particularly well, professionally speaking, because he's of the same mindset.

Somewhat to my surprise, I found I liked him. It wasn't liking in the way I liked Vette or Her Lordship or even the Captain. It was just… he wasn't childish or subtle. There are too many subtle people onboard the _Astral Blight_.

At some point, Pierce paused for breath. "Don't know too much about our boss. Just know she's not like the usual Sith running around all pissed off and flaunting their fancy Force powers." That was his clumsy way of asking for more information. Or maybe he was seeing how far he could run his mouth before I pulled him up short.

I had to chuckle at this. "No, that's not like her at all." It took a few moments for me to weigh how I wanted to approach the topic of Her Lordship. I don't want to say too much, but I don't want to seem uncommunicative, either. "She's exacting, expects nothing but the best and doesn't take excuses. That said, she's… not fair perhaps, but if it was truly outside your ability to affect she'll take the fact into consideration. The Empire couldn't have a finer champion."

Pierce nodded. "Kinda what I got off her. Fit right in once she gives me her okay."

His self-assurance that he was a shoo-in for her crew left me smiling. "Yes, Pierce. I think you will. Provided we're notable in our success with this mission."

Pierce's answering grin was wolfish. " _Won't_ be an issue."

 **Midterm Exams IX**

Pierce and I didn't exactly have much in common, but we found enough to talk about on our way to the reactor.

I wasn't comfortable talking about how Her Lordship scooped me out of the Jedi Order, but when he told me he was from Ziost and happily joined the Imperial Armed Forces the moment he was of age, I allowed that I was from Alderaan and that Her Lordship saw my potential and recruited me.

Personal history was the topic going out; mostly his service record, which he was very proud of and easily convinced to talk about without realizing he was being prompted to talk so I wouldn't have to navigate delicate subjects with an as-yet not member of the crew.

The topic of discussion on the way back to base was, of course, the rakghoul rampage we could happily take credit for. It had done Pierce's soul no small good to see the rakghouls chowing down on the Republic forces (and hear those forces scream in shocked surprise). It was disgusting to watch, but fascinating since we were at a safe distance.

"The rakghoul plan worked beautifully," I announced, entering Melkor Din's chambers. Mola was still alive, and didn't seem to know whether she should be glad this was the case or not. "They did _not_ look happy."

"Excellent!" Din clapped his hands together. "Did you hear that, Mola?" he asked rhetorically. "The rakghouls will mangle your beloved Republic and the reactor waste will soak the ground, making your clean-up impossible!"

Sadist, and I mean it as an insult. There was something in his condescending, one-sided conversation that made me feel twitchy—though that might have been a result of the stims. Pierce said they could make a person cranky after a few doses but it wasn't anything I needed to worry about just yet—even if I was a skinny bit of a thing.

I'd bristled back at that with an in-earnest threat of sending him flying into the nearest swamp-puddle. _Ipso facto_ , he'd taken me seriously, even if he'd held up his hands and promised he meant no real offense, chuckling all the while.

That was the point at which I decided I liked him and that Her Lordship would, too. He ran his mouth too much, but he knew how to deflect a sensible person's annoyance… and probably knew when to stop messing around so he didn't end up ankle deep in swamp goo (head first, I hasten to add).

Still, there was no point in Din grinding Mola under his boot: she was already completely cowed. She barely qualified as an enemy—which might provide allowances for the taunting—as she didn't look capable of holding a blaster. It seemed to me the showing of a _weak_ man. Career toady, just as I'd pegged him, and I felt the bile rise.

Mola said nothing and Din didn't seem to care. "Lord Gravus was right about you, so very right," Din declared appreciatively.

"Silence your praise, Melkor," the snide sneering voice of Thana preceded her. "This planet's covered in Sith, all twice as powerful as your little friend, here _._ "

Din's mouth twisted as he rolled his eyes.

Pierce stiffened and, although he moved so he didn't block me from Thana's view, he did stand there looming behind me—an imposing brick wall of disapproval.

My stomach began to burn with indigestion. "I must say, Thana, for someone who claims to detest me, you do seem to have a burning desire to seek out my company."

Pierce snorted softly, earning a disgusted glare from Thana.

"I'd as soon bury you as look at you," Thana retorted hotly.

My smile said what I didn't have to: bring it.

"Enough, Thana," Din growled. "I trust you've come to do more than waste my time snapping your teeth."

"Watch your tone, Melkor," Thana growled, voice redolent with threat, like the hiss of a snake or the growl of a wolf. The Force rippled around her, like the rings generated in water when something nearby impacts. "I'm not on Gravus' leash anymore."

"You bark too much about being dangerous. I begin to wonder if Gravus let you go because he was tired of having someone like you attached to his name," I mused aloud, reveling in the way her temper sparked and fizzled. "You certainly don't do much of a _constructive_ nature."

"Oh really? Well, while you were taking your sweet time poisoning an already poisoned planet, _I_ was busy slaughtering rakghouls," Thana answered with a toss of her head.

"What's the incubation time for rakghoul bites again? I think we should put her in quarantine. Just in case," I beamed.

"One of them hit back without touching me."

That brought my mockery to a standstill. "Are you suggesting a _rakghoul_ used the Force?" The idea was… disturbing, and Pierce felt that way even more than I did.

"Ridiculous," Din snapped. "Rakghouls are mindless savages. They don't possess the capacity."

"How would _you_ know?" Thana asked darkly. "You're Gravus' stooge and _far_ too important to handle anything _truly_ important."

For once I agreed with her, though I'd never admit it. I looked at Mola, whose brow had furrowed. "You know something about this," I prompted.

Mola glanced up at me. "They're called nekghouls," she answered.

Din was in front of her immediately, looking furious. "You know the penalty for lying, Mola—"

"Just because it isn't what you want to hear doesn't mean it's a lie," I interposed. I only meant the hand on his wrist to stop him from shocking her before I could get anything out of her, but the gesture was a bit overzealous and sent the controller falling to the floor, from which Thana scooped it up through the Force.

Oh, great.

Pretending I hadn't noticed Thana's acquisition of the controller, which she was studying with a sort of dreamy smile—only nastier than one would expect for a dreamy smile, "I want Mola to finish her story, as I'm the operative most likely to deal with this."

Thana curled her lip, her head snapping away from her contemplation of the controller.

Iignored her, could feel her anger at the slight radiating like heat off a rock.

"These nekghouls, they're sentient, proficient with the Force. A whole colony of them lives in the rundown reactor," Mola declared, actually managing to stop sounding scared as her fascination over this aberration took over.

"Force-sensitive rakghouls would surely not be allowed to exist without some kind of Jedi interference. They'd want to 'steer them towards the Light,'" I sneered, personal recollection aching, "while exploiting them for their own purposes."

"…there was a Jedi Master working with them," Mola answered. "Sulan, I think he was called."

"Sulan," Din mused, toying with the cuffs of his sleeves. "I know the name. An idealistic Jedi, powerful, but foolish."

"Rakghouls are a Sith creation. I won't have them trapped under a Jedi's boot," I declared flatly. It's a matter of principle: if anyone destroys such a Sith creation it should be the Sith.

…it was also a consideration more productive than my inner cringing at the thought of fighting a Jedi Master. They're idiots, but they're still dangerous. Maybe I can throw Thana at him (or let her throw herself at him) and stab him in the back while he's busy.

I rather like that idea, come to think of it. I'm not Her Lordship, kicking in chairs and knocking out windows. I'm a sneaky little backstabber… and I'm alright with that. I've made it work so far.

"They're _animals_ ," Thana retorted. "They should be wiped out."

" _That_ would be wasteful. Play your strengths, Thana. Tactics and subtlety aren't among them," I gave a casually dismissive wave with my hand before giving my full attention to Din and giving every appearance of pointedly blotting out Thana from my world.

The slight rankled her even further. It was wonderful.

" _If_ Sulan raises the nekghouls against us, we could have trouble," Din declared over Thana's and my renewed arguing. It seemed to me to take less and less time to rile her up each time we came face-to-face.

"Yes, _if_ ," I agreed.

"Then you understand," Din nodded. "Look for him at this reactor…" He produced a sketchmap which was obviously newer than any holomap, and pointed to a location on it. "Find Sulan. Remove him."

"This job requires true mastery of the Dark Side. Stick to what _you're_ good at… whatever that is… and leave it to the professionals," Thana sniffed.

"You're recycling _my_ insults? That's very telling, Thana."

If looks could kill, I'd be three days dead, as the saying goes. "First one to overload the reactor core gets to watch the nekghouls fry." With that, Thana turned, glanced at the shock collar controller in her hand, then depressed the button.

I sighed, rolling my eyes as though I found her display gauche in the worst possible way. Which I did.

She dropped the controller and swayed out, humor restored by the pointless suffering inflicted on an already broken creature. Oh, Her Lordship would hate this woman. No, Her Lordship would disdain Thana—she wouldn't consider Thana worth the effort of hating.

"I'll handle this," I assured Din before striding out, Pierce following along. "That woman is the most irritatingly short-sighted fool I've ever had the misfortune of meeting," I growled darkly.

"No argument here," Pierce agreed. "Gotta say though, Force-sensitive raks isn't something I wanted to hear today."

"Nor I. Still, we have them so we have to do something about them."

"Fry 'em like that Vesh girl wants? Simple, easy solution."

"Jedi breed resentment like you wouldn't believe. There's a reason their apprentices are always rebelling. Imagine if that resentment could be channeled, hm? If they're Sith creations, they're already inclining towards the Dark Side. They may be an asset in future. And, frankly, I'd like the nekghouls to be the Republic's nightmare. Resentment is easy to twist… to an accomplished Sith." It was thinking more of Her Lordship when I said it, but apparently Pierce didn't realize it.

"Your show, m'lord. Just saying, they could still be as antagonistic towards us."

"Have you faced Jedi before?"

Pierce practically swelled with pride. "Run across a few and still have all my parts."

I chuckled at this, several colorful mental pictures flittering across my mind. There's a story, there. "Thana isn't likely to let us win what she's so maturely dubbed 'a contest.'"

"She really dangerous or is it all in her head?" Pierce asked as we reentered the balmy Tarisian night.

"Oh, she's dangerous of course. She's Sith, and presumably survived Korriban. But there's quite a bit that's just in her head, I'm sure. Her Lordship wouldn't approve of her— _especially_ being a fellow redhead. Right now, though, worry about Sulan."

I hadn't heard of him, but that's not surprising. How could I possibly know every Jedi Master?

…and I suddenly realized that I was about to be fighting a Jedi _Master_ , skipping fights with Jedi Knights altogether… even Her Lordship didn't do that.

Well… learning curve, I guess…


	29. Chapter 29

**Midterm Exams X**

If I hadn't already planned to kill Thana the first chance I could contrive, then her little stunt of sending Republic security after me and Pierce clinched it. Not that we didn't get out relatively unscathed, but the principle was there: she was so shortsighted and narrow-minded… too big a fool to live. She'd compromise campaigns simply to indulge her petty likes and dislikes.

No, shame her first _then_ kill her. Let's be truly Sith about this.

"I knew I should have sent more droids," she spat as Pierce and I entered the chamber in which she, Master Sulan (a Nautolan of all things), and the nekghouls stood.

Sulan was calm, his aura flat and nauseatingly bland. I'd either forgotten or never appreciated the aura Jedi cultivate. Uncooked tofu is more interesting than a Jedi Master's aura, it seems: colorless, bland and with a weird texture.

The nekghouls brooded, a full dozen of them, hulking monsters more human in form than their non-Sensitive brethren but still just as alien. Discontent and weariness of Sulan warred with the desire to learn… because they appreciated power, and the Force was a power beyond the fear generated by the infectious nature of their condition. It was tangible. It was _real_.

"Back, my students," Sulan said soothingly, holding up a hand. "Remember your training."

The nekghouls gave a little ground, but their curiosity buzzed in the air. Whether Sulan didn't notice or chose not to remark, I couldn't tell. We Sith were something new, and new things are always interesting to a simple mind.

"I sense much anger in you, Sith," he directed at me, regarding me solemnly with the large dark eyes of his kind.

This was certainly true. The moment I laid eyes on him, all thought of Thana and the irritation she causes me retreated to some disused corner of my mind. All I could think about was how much I hated this Jedi and all his kind. Sanctimonious and serene, I looked at him and all I could see was Nomen Karr and wonder what fatal flaws Sulan was hiding under that holier-than-thou attitude.

Then I wondered what it would take to drag them to the surface, the ultimate proof of the inferiority of the Jedi Order. Proving it to the nekghouls is nothing. Proving it to Sulan himself… _that_ would be an achievement.

"It is not too late. I can help you overcome the Empire's torments," Sulan offered, as though he was doing me a great service. He might even have meant it genuinely enough—I didn't notice him offering the same thing to Thana.

"You've got it the wrong way around, Jedi," I answered, my voice almost silky as anger like acid boiled in my stomach. "That anger you sense? Your kind _put_ it there." Keeping my tone smooth helped me keep the anger in check, focused, something I could trigger like a thermal detonator at will.

Sulan looked confused by this admission.

"So in the end, the Jedi have only themselves to thank for this second destruction of Taris… and for getting you killed."

Sulan's lips pursed, confusion pushed aside so he could deal with something within the pitiful limits of his understanding. "Power comes at the price of corruption. Like you, these nekghouls were confused, angry, and destructive. Now, I heal them with the Force and guide them towards the light."

His voice grated on my ears and suddenly I wasn't feeling shaky because of the stims I wasn't used to. It was a rage so hot it felt cold. An ugly haze seemed to creep around the corners of my vision as I glared at Sulan. My breath began to come in heavy pants as if I'd been running hard, my mouth started to twitch and tremble. My eyes fixed on Sulan who tensed as my rage built. In moments, he seemed more intent on keeping an eye on me than on Thana, considering me the bigger threat.

For Pierce, there was nothing. A trait shared by many Sith: they ignore or marginalize the non-Sensitive, losing the value of such individuals because that value doesn't compute for them directly. The thought was redolent of Her Lordship's teachings. Also Darth Baras'.

I was proud of it.

"Pierce, keep the neks covered, just in case," I breathed before speaking in a louder, commanding tone. "Regard this, nekghouls, and see the truth he's been hiding from you. His strength is thin and his Light Side teachings mean less than nothing." It was the first time I'd actually started a fight, but the lunge forward that brought me into range of Sulan was perfectly executed. Unfortunately, he was fast enough to narrowly avoid taking my lightsaber to the chest.

Thana jumped in a moment later, hammering on the Jedi with all the vim and viciousness one could expect from someone of her mold. Whatever I'd said about it, Sulan had the skill to back the title of Master, managing to keep from engaging Thana and I at the same time—he'd push one back or raise some impediment so he only had one to deal with; then, the one so impeded would work around whatever it was and he would work against the other in order to meet the new fighter.

Unfortunately, he was one against two and finally he was too slow to stagger Thana (who was trying to hammer on him with no tactics, no thought for how to be effective—all unfocused rage and energy) and took my lightsaber to the back, the blade punching out of his chest.

I'm not going to kill him. I'm going to feed him to his own nekghouls. Let him see exactly how pointless all his efforts have been. Let him die knowing it.

"…who are you?" he whispered, choked by pain, his moist skin starting to go dry.

"I'm Jaesa Willsaam," I answered in an equally soft whisper. Anticipation beat in my blood, and there was something viscerally pleasing about seeing the Jedi skewered on my lightsaber, a breath from death and completely at my non-existent mercy. It was like pleasure but unlike any variety I'd ever experienced. I wanted to take him apart piece by piece… but recognized that my own gratification in this instance would lessen the effectiveness of my mission.

Sulan's breath trembled as he inhaled, as if he'd heard the name, heard the reputation, but hadn't heard that I'd been saved from their Order. "You… can't be…"

"Don't tell me what I can or can't be, Jedi. My power, my choice." With that, I blasted him off my lightsaber, sent him flying across the room to land in a sad heap that crunched unpleasantly upon landing. "Wait," I commanded, sticking an arm out to prevent a frothing-with-rage Thana from charging up to finish him.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked sourly. "Overload the reactor and let's kill these freaks—"

"They're still useful. So wait," I responded darkly, readying myself to fry the control board for the reactor so she couldn't do something stupid.

The nekghouls watched the altercation attentively, their inhuman faces contorted into grimaces that might have been thoughtfulness. Now, they gathered around Sulan, peering down at him… but their intentions were far from helpful. Their auras were slimy, pulpy, dark. They weren't what I would call truly intelligent, but they were certainly sapient.

"Sulan," one of the nekghouls rasped, its voice raising nervous tingles along my spine and the backs of my arms. The words were clearly Basic, but as distorted as the nekghouls were. "You promised us prosperity, but your Republic is weak."

"No," Sulan persisted doggedly. "Don't let your anger erase everything you've learned! You still have a future on Taris—"

"Yes. But not with you," the nekghoul answered before swiftly and neatly snapping Sulan's neck through the Force.

They hate everything, Empire and Republic alike… but they bear a special grudge against the Jedi (and the Republic) for being proved so inferior. I could tell, through my gift, that they would rather cause the Republic immediate problems and would walk softly around Sith until they were a little stronger in their own right. I'd proved my Order to be worth being worthy of caution.

I indicated the nekghouls were free to leave, which they did.

"Why did you let them _live_?" Thana demanded petulantly. I was surprised she didn't stamp her foot. "We could have made the nekghouls extinct!"

"If you feel so strongly about it why didn't you stop me?" I asked, then heaved a sigh. "I know this will be difficult for you, but they hate the Republic more than they do the Empire and will cause the Republic more problems. Non-sensitives are more unsettled by the rakghouls than we are because the raks have a higher chance to get close enough to do damage… and a soldier might recognize something of a friend and hesitate to do what must be done."

"Sounds like cowardice to me," Thana sneered.

"Understand that I don't expect much from you, so I won't argue the complexities of cowardice versus foresight," I answered. "Chase them and kill them if you must. But I wouldn't try it, not when you've evidenced your ego's over-inflation."

"I simply call it like I see it and don't pander to lesser individuals," Thana snapped.

"Then get your eyes checked." With that, and aware I really shouldn't do it, I started off, giving her a good line of attack for my back.

Nothing came of the challenge, except that her anger flared and rippled. I'm starting to see part of Her Lordship's power: keeping a cool head while others get wound up gives you power over them.

Ah, well. She won't be able to resist forever and sooner or later I'll find an opening to my liking. Then... she's doomed. And I won't need to feed her to nekghouls or anything else. I'll take out of her hide what I couldn't take out of Sulan's.

The thought soothed me, swept the residual anger, hatred and hurt into that little pot where such things ferment in readiness for a rainy day. By the time I emerged into the Tarisian night, I was actually smiling.

 **Midterm Exams XI**

With Thana's only objective being the killing of Republic soldiers and with no new objective for me, I did my best to sleep off the stims. Pierce warned me it might be a bit difficult—and he was right, despite my attempts to use the Force to expel the contaminants by sweating them out—but they were already wearing off, so all I had to do was exercise a bit of patience.

That patience was rewarded by another assignment from Melkor Din. Apparently the Imperial general dispatched especially to deal with the Cathar settlers was having… difficulties. Those difficulties had attracted enough attention that he was to be given Sith assistance… and he was probably well aware that the Sith weren't pleased at having to stop their own operations to provide him with an agent to assist with his.

I didn't mind. It was something to do.

Suddenly, my holocom went off, the frequency matching that of… "My lord!" I couldn't stop the smile that snapped onto my face. It wasn't lost on me that, as a Jedi, I dreaded being required to present an accounting. I was always so afraid of doing whatever it was wrong, or not being good enough. Now, I felt only enthusiasm to share my progress, eagerness to display what her teaching has produced.

" _Jaesa. I'm so sorry to have left you on Taris for so long. I should be back in a few days to retrieve you._ " She looked (and sounded) mildly harassed, as if she'd like to throw something but felt that restraint was called for.

"Is everything alright?" I asked, frowning.

" _It's nothing to worry about. Merely a hitch in operations,_ " she answered repressively. " _I simply wished to check in with you. Check on your progress._ "

"I've _so much_ to tell you, my lord, that I'd prefer to do it in person." The enthusiasm bubbled up in me and made me feel jittery—or maybe I was still on the tail end of the stims. I wanted so much for her to be pleased with my Taris campaign and thought I'd done everything well enough to, at the very least, satisfy her expectations of me—which I knew were high.

She chuckled at this, but the sound suggested she was displeased with something. Not _me_ ,but something. " _That's the kind of answer I want to hear. I look forward to your full report. I must go. I'll see you in a few days._ "

I frowned even more deeply as Her Lordship's image faded. "She's _angry_ ," I realized with some confusion.

"Didn't sound that way to me, but I'll take your word," Pierce answered.

I started walking again, wondering what could have upset her so badly. It was best, I decided, that I had something constructive to do, something I could use to take my mind off my concerns about Her Lordship and whatever had gone wrong. An assignment gone wrong would produce a different kind of anger.

 **Midterm Exams XII**

General Farvin's problem was bigger than a Cathar presence and the Mandalorian preference for sticking to their private rules of engagement. Although the Mandalorians overran the Cathar homeworld during the war, it wasn't personal. They were simply paid to do a job and they did it—the only differences between a regular army and the Mandalorians are that the Mandalorians are paid by engagement rather than by an Imperial pay schedule with contracted durations of service; so the Mandalorians can say 'no thanks, I'll pass' when offered a job not to their tastes, while the Imperial Armed Forces don't have that luxury.

While the General made it clear he felt the mercenaries were lowlifes, I thought he was a narrow-minded fool—the way he harped on about the Mandalorians being paid to do 'their duty as part of the Empire' he seemed to forget that militaries are paid to fight wars as well, and for many it's just a job.

From what I could tell, Farvin wanted the Mandalorians to grind the Cathar under their durasteel-booted heels while the Mandalorians felt such extremes to be unnecessary (or even beneath their dignity). It didn't take long to untangle the reason for this: Farvin represented one of the more traditional Imperial mindsets, the one that minimizes aliens, relegating them to the position of scum.

So, all in all, I found Farvin a real piece of work who so richly deserved a dead-end job on a desecrated world like this one. He was _exactly_ where he belonged… but with too much responsibility for his limited capabilities. The thought smacked of the Captain.

The biggest problem was a character named Bashun, a Cathar leader who'd been giving the Empire fits. Apparently, the man had survived an assassination attempt; moreover, a Sith asset had gone in afterwards and had fallen completely out of contact. I assumed Thana to be involved, given the ineptitude represented by the General's colorless accounting. Involved and in trouble. Or dead. I hoped 'in trouble,' because I still wanted to kill her, show her in the only language she'd understand how pointless she really was.

I'd done it, to some degree, with Sulan. Thana was just another kind of personal grudge, another poison I needed to expel.

Also, with Her Lordship coming back soon, I felt I needed to wrap things up quickly, lest I have to leave them in Thana's incompetent hands. That wouldn't be good for my mood or for operations on Taris. There was no guarantee I'd have time to carry on once Her Lordship returned; Baras might have something new for us, and his directives superseded anything else.

I wish I could say I found Thana before I found Bashun, but the truth was that I found them in more or less the same place. At least I found Thana _right_ where I would expect to find her if she wasn't in a shallow grave: she'd been captured, locked up in a cell, and was in a hilariously bad temper.

What I didn't get was why they hadn't stripped her of her lightsaber. Maybe they just bundled her in, being unable to deprive her of her weapon. Like I've said, she's powerful and can use it, even if not to the standards I've been taught to accept.

"—I get out of here," she was snarling at Bashun—or, rather, I assumed he was Bashun, for he stood before a holotransmitter providing live capture. "I'll wipe out your entire _species_!" Thana's voice was rough, grating and impotent with anger. She sounded a step away from stomping her foot in temper.

It would be a more convincing threat if she wasn't locked up.

"The Empire sent this Sith to murder me," Bashun continued, unperturbed as he glowered at Thana, meeting her eyes in bold defiance. "But she failed—proof that none can defeat the mighty Cathar!" I'd heard this kind of rhetoric before. He reminded me of that Killesa fellow on Alderaan… only, I suppose I had more respect for him than for Killesa, who was just an idiot with a dumb hat.

"I don't know," I answered simply, striding past Thana without a glance to show I noticed her. "The Mandalorians did a fairly decent job, especially if you've had to come to a place like Taris to settle."

Everything Farvin—with his biased attitudes—told me about Bashun was that the Cathar was a step away from being positively feral. I don't know about _feral_ , but the man was definitely sitting on a lot of rage. His ruddy fur and thick mass of hair made him look a bit like a rust-colored lion. He certainly had a nasty glare. Although tall, he was fairly skinny—well, wiry would probably be a better descriptor. Regardless, I had the impression he was probably more than proficient with that vibrosword at his back—by Her Lordship's and therefore my definition of the word. A big, heavy-looking thing, thinking about pitting it against my lightsaber made me a little nervous…

…but I made up my mind to work through those nerves _very_ quickly—wait… I don't need to _rely_ on the sword. Her Lordship does by choice, but it's been made clear to me that while I'm to absorb her teachings she doesn't need a little clone.

"Stinking Sith," Bashun spat. "You can join my trap."

I regarded him coolly as Pierce shifted his footing, preparing for the fight that would inevitably break out.

"You know, Cathar aren't the only settlers on Taris. The Nikto have joined us, along with their Morgukai warriors," Bashun noted.

I've heard of the Morgukai. They're skilled and fearsome fighters. Dedicated. Pierce had also briefed me on the settlers when I asked.

"We're all refugees," Bashun continued to orate as several Nikto—Morgukai, undoubtedly—filtered away from the walls and into what was about to become an engagement area. "Fleeing the Empire's cruelty."

Odd that they should move _closer_ to the Empire's territory to do so. That just doesn't make any sense to me.

"And I promise you, my Cathar, we won't be uprooted again!"

"An uplifting speech, I suppose. Too bad you won't be able to deliver on your promises. I'm going to kill your men, here, and then I'm going to kill you. And it seems I'll be doing live on holo," I announced, showing more enthusiasm than Her Lordship would have. Inwardly though, I suppressed the tickle of anticipation brought on by a challenge.

Here it is, my first foray into holovids!

"Don't be so sure," Bashun retorted, glowering at me. "I have the Morgukai and the Republic on my side. Watch closely, fellow Cathar, witness our enemies' downfall."

Well, I have _the Force_ , and it's a lot better than four or five Morgukai and a nonexistent Republic presence. Add Pierce into the bargain and I felt confident even if Bashun and his men had a numerical advantage. Numbers matter, but these numbers… they might, but I don't think so.

The plan was to kill Bashun's men first, leaving me free to deal with him all on his own. I think the lightning rather shocked them—pun intended—because what can one do against lightning? It certainly startled Pierce, for he'd never seen me use the lightning… or if he had (and I'd simply forgotten—a Sith does so much fighting) he'd never seen me use it so expansively as an opening move.

The lightning rattled their resolve. It didn't help their efforts that I could deflect most of their blaster fire. I still hadn't mastered directing where deflected bolts go, so I made a mental note to work on it the next time I trained with the practice droids.

A double-bladed lightsaber, to me, doesn't seem fitted to _Trakata_ , so I need some other trump card or trick. You can never have too many tricks and seeing one's comrade cut down with one's own repurposed blaster fire has to be hard on morale. Because that's something I've learned from Her Lordship without her actually making a lesson of it: crushed morale can be invaluable to a long or badly-balanced campaign.

After a short scuffle, Bashun's head and shoulders parted company in one smooth motion, knocking into the holorecorder before rolling awkwardly to a stop. I regarded the markings on the floor indicating capture range, found myself within capture. "Take note, Cathar, Nikto, all who would seek to rebuild this fallen world. Taris belongs to the Sith; long ago it was given over to the rakhouls. Seek to change this and you will share Bashun's fate." With this declaration, I sent enough voltage through the holorecorder to turn it into a sparking wreck.

"Well, _that_ will send those vermin scurrying off Taris," Thana said snidely. "But before you go, I could use a hand over here." It was the tone one uses with a maidservant.

"Oh, Thana," I sighed with a smile. "You look so at home, there! The forcefield really brings out your ineptitude."

Thana's expression went truly ugly as Pierce snickered softly. He tended to keep quiet around other Sith, but that was probably wise. He'd talk frankly with me, however, when there wasn't much of an audience. "Let me out of here," she managed to sound sickly sweet, but it was the kind of sweetness accompanying a festering wound. Then, and looking as though it cost her everything, " _Please_."

"Why would I do something counterproductive like that?" I asked innocently. "Sit tight, perhaps think about that attitude of yours."

Her fit of rage was entirely predictable and utterly hilarious. "I'm going to escape from here, and when I do—"

"Yes, yes, I get the message. Your lightsaber, my neck, watch out." Shaking my head, Pierce and I returned the way we'd come, Thana's impotent rage sending us on our way.

"She's gonna be trouble," Pierce observed grimly, scowling as he crossed his arms over his barrel chest.

What did his mother feed him as a child? Or did he put on mass after enlisting? Imperial rations turned out to be just as proverbially nasty as billed in Republic space, so obviously not those.

"A little, yes. But forewarned is forearmed… and if she doesn't do something about that temper it's going to make her wonderfully sloppy," I answered, not without some pleasure at the anticipation.

"You're looking forward to her getting underfoot again."

"Oh very yes," I breathed. "She's a threat to Imperial operations on Taris—and anywhere else she goes, unless it's just the climate affecting her temper."

"It's not so bad once you get used to the mosquitoes," Pierce shrugged indifferently.

I chuckled at this—he's had _such_ problems with them. "I'm sure if wholesale slaughter was the only requirement for an assignment she would do well. Unfortunately, it takes more than brute force to get anything constructive done."

"How're you going to deal with her?"

I considered the question from the standpoint of someone in Pierce's position. "Quickly. You'll need to hang back." I don't think he liked that answer, but if Thana's and my positions were reversed, I'd happily throw him at her in order to take advantage of whatever kind of distraction it caused.

I wouldn't fail to consider such a trick, and it seemed so very in character for her to want to throw things around in the fit of pique I expected from her.

 **Midterm Exams XIII**

General Farvin could have been a bit more enthusiastic with the success of the mission when I found him after breakfast the next morning. There was no way Thana could get out of that prison any sooner than morning and I had every confidence she would get out if only to spite me.

After all, the idiots left her her lightsaber. I'm still scratching my head about that one.

As far as Farvin's lack of enthusiasm… well. He ought to have been enthusiastic: it wasn't as though his men were having anything remotely resembling success. "I intercepted Bashun's final transmission. Magnificent work—although his death was gratuitous."

"Nonsense," I answered, Pierce giving a soft snort to indicate he shared my opinion. "I couldn't very well drag him back here kicking and screaming. At least, this way, he can't come back for a second try."

"I merely suggest he's been made a martyr, my lord," Farvin answered as neutrally as possible.

He had a point, I suppose. Still… "Perhaps. But how many men does it take to turn a martyr into the first in a long line of fools? And if he's the best of them…"

Farvin clearly didn't share my opinion, and my argument didn't seem to change his mind in the least.

Well, that's fine, I suppose. It doesn't matter. I'm leaving in a few days and he'll be here, stuck in the muck.

"The point is that it was otherwise well done, my lord. The Cathar are abandoning their homes in terror," Farvin nodded. "My men report it's more like a scattering than a retreat."

See? Killing Bashun _was_ the right idea—he hasn't got a match in the Cathar populace and they know it. So _not_ a martyr. Nyah.

Suddenly, the holoterminal began to blink. "Five credits it's dear Thana calling to scold me," I chuckled.

"Won't take that bet, if it's all the same to you, m'lord," Pierce answered, his tone shaking slightly with suppressed amusement.

Farvin gave us a puzzled look, then opened the channel.

And there was Thana, looking sweaty, swamp-streaked, and angry.

"Dear me, Thana, you look absolutely dreadful," I noted lightly.

" _Three meters_!" she spat venomously. " _Three meters of durasteel—that's what I cut through to escape my cell_!"

"I'm sorry it wasn't more. Such exercise would do you good."

I didn't miss that both Pierce and Farvin seemed to retreat a little from this cattiness. Probably wise, given the nature of the insult.

" _You know what other exercise would do me good? Cutting you in half!_ " Thana shouted, seeming truly beside herself.

"I'm floored by your creativity, Thana. Truly." She really did look one chipped nail away from completely and utterly losing it.

" _When I get hold of you_ —"

"Thana? Thana! I'm sorry, you're breaking up! I can barely hear you! Are you still receive—" With that, I punched the button to sever the call. "I swear, that woman would be a valuable asset if she wasn't so stupid."

"Won't argue with you there," Pierce nodded.

"And I, myself, have heard more than enough of her ranting," Farvin agreed. "Lord Gravus expects you to lead our final attack. Regretfully, I can't join you—my duties here, wiping out any resisting Cathar…"

I felt a sneer coming on. It wasn't that I didn't believe him it was just… it seemed like such a wishy-washy thing to say and there was something about the _way_ he said it that made me grimace. It sounded like a typical Imperial who wouldn't get his boots muddy. Pierce didn't like the Captain and I wasn't always fond of the Captain myself, but at least he'll jump in feet-first no matter how filthy or thankless the work is. He might complain, but don't we all?

This sourness in mind, I didn't stick around for his 'I await your success, my lord!' speech once he told me where I needed to go.

What was it Her Lordship said about this being a dumping ground for Imperial officers? I glanced sidelong at Pierce, wondering what he'd done—or who he'd pissed off—to get landed here.

It didn't matter. I didn't plan to say anything to leave him stuck in the muck. He was an asset, and I would surely tell Her Lordship so.

 **Midterm Exams XIV**

Our task—and Gravus virtually promised it really would be the final task—was simple: destroy the last (appreciable) bastion the Republic had. Of course, the forces were superintended by a Jedi Master, but that wasn't what upset me so much.

The fact was that it was Gravus' bright idea to put Thana and I on the same task, ostensibly as a _team_. I didn't know what to think about it except that I was reminded of the fact that I was physically tired, tired of Taris and so _mortally_ tired of Thana. Baiting her had finally begun to cease to be amusing.

…although I will admit, seeing Gravus—in cold blood—put a Force-choke around her pretty throat when he didn't like one of her comments did go some way to refreshing me.

The 'tired' only grew more pronounced once the mission got started.

Although useful as a battering ram—Lord Augustine had no idea what that meant when he called Her Lordship 'Baras' battering ram'—she had no other value. None. And her eagerness to get into the fight caused her to bog down or run into problems which I had to stop and bail her out of, because I wasn't going to be the one to tell Her Lordship that the mission to which I was assigned failed because I couldn't balance the task at hand with mollycoddling an overpowered idiot.

We caught up with Jedi Master Cerik in the hangar, though he didn't seem ready to evacuate, whatever one might have expected from the locale in which we found him.

"We will not lose Taris," he announced from the overlook upon which the control hub was located.

He was strong, I'll give him that. I could feel it acutely, like someone trying to put something over my mouth and nose to stifle my breathing.

Thana, frothing at the mouth (and doubly so since I'd had to not only rescue her, but set her free from Force restraints), was the perfect missile to throw at him. Let her wear him out. If he killed her… well, I'd resent that a bit, but since I was fairly sure she couldn't kill him it was worth her life to me to have him worn down to the point that I could just sweep in and 'schwoop, head on floor' as Vette once said.

"Taris' reconstruction dies today, Jedi," I announced simply. I felt sticky from sweat and Taris' atmosphere, and irritable because of it. All in all, I was such a ball of irritability that I was glad I'd left Pierce somewhere safer than where a couple of Sith were about to fight. After we fought the Jedi, I mean.

Because it seemed to me that if I really wanted Thana out of my misery, it would have to be done soon. Now was the time to find out whether 'I can't stand her' is bluster or a real actionable thing. And I doubt anyone really loses out if she dies.

"Ah, finally," Cerik said, looking over at us. "The intruders show themselves."

I ignored Thana and her threats, reaching out to feel around the bay we were in. There—at the far end, behind the heavy safety doors. Three… five… and one a Jedi. I could feel his power as little tremors in the Force, shivers that suggested he was prudently concealing himself from all passive investigations. The fighters beyond the door were all dripping with readiness: they were in a corner and didn't share their leader's calm sense of superiority.

I wouldn't either if I was them: they were down here with Thana's bad attitude and my own somewhat colder approach while Cerik was up there where it was relatively safer.

"Darth Gravus is _amazingly_ predictable," came Cerik's nonplussed rejoinder. "This is a trap, and you've walked right into it."

"The first step in avoiding a trap is knowing if its existence. Don't be rude: introduce our five mystery guests already," I answered, turning to face the door at the end of the bay a spit second before it started rattling open.

Cerik's aura didn't pop or fizzle, though Thana whipped around.

"Relax, Thana. Only one of them is a Jedi—there's no need to be so scared," I almost purred.

Cerik, not having heard us, continued, "The evacuation transports that arrived weren't empty. They brought friends ready to defend Taris. Perhaps… you're familiar with them?"

I snorted at this. "No, but I'm quite certain they're familiar with me."

"Us," Thana hissed.

"Are you truly so desperate for recognition?" I asked archly.

"Look at you," Cerik sneered. "You can't even stop bickering with one another long enough to fight a common enemy."

"As common as they come," I agreed snidely. "It's too bad you Jedi like throwing people with little to no chance of succeeding at a Sith, rather than putting yourself between those so outclassed and our blades." I'd come to be thoroughly sick of this Jedi trick—that their hands were too lily white to bloody until they could whine about innocents and the like being cut down.

It's better to get involved and get bloody _before_ said innocents can be sent to the slaughter.

By the Force I'm glad I got away from them.

 **Midterm Exams XV**

It was exactly what I expected to do: cut through Cerik's men, storm his bunker, then let Thana hack and slash while I got behind him and stuck my lightsaber in him—much to Thana's chagrin. Unlike Sulan, who'd held both of us handily at bay, Cerik unwisely let me drop out of his perceptions…

…or maybe I was good enough to drop out of them myself. Thana could be quite distracting, after all.

"That still counts as mine," Thana hissed as I turned off my lightsaber so Cerik's corpse could fall to the ground. He was a big man, after all.

"Will you cease your whining?" I asked, glaring at her. "It makes you look childish."

Thana growled something inarticulate as she rummaged Cerik, holding up a filmstrip when she rose. I took it to contain the codes we'd come for.

She walked over to the nearest terminal and began fiddling with it. Although winded, she certainly wasn't as worn down as I would have liked.

The building shuddered and the lights began flashing, klaxons going off. "And just like that…" Thana smirked. "The power grid is overloading. No more Republic."

I shifted my feet, then froze when Thana stiffened.

"Wait a minute…"

It became clear to me that she didn't really appreciate me as a threat. Her mind was so stuck in its rut of her own superiority that she failed to appreciate the threats represented by others. The blind spot was monstrous and made me wonder how she made it through Korriban. Or maybe that was where she gained it—a hidden cost of being a big fish in the pool.

"Those transports," she said blankly, "the ones that brought Cerik's backup… they're loaded with civilians… They're actually trying to open the hangar. They'll-they'll escape the explosions!"

"Open the hangar," I commanded levelly, thoughts flicking quickly across my mind. Dead is good, but better some of them escape to tell the whole gruesome tale. Especially if any of them were watching my first foray into making holovids. "Let them go."

Thana turned to glare at me. "You really know how to sap the joy out of a good massacre."

"As if you'd know a good one from a bad one," came my snide rejoinder. "Do it." We glared at one another for a few moments, then Thana, with a toss of her head, sullenly entered a command.

"There you go—hangar's open," she sneered. "And there they go. What a waste."

I shifted my footing, taking advantage of the lower robe to hide some of the movements. This is it—my first kill for personal reasons and in cold blood, for no other reason than because we're both Sith and she annoys me. She left Gravus' service. She serves no master. No one can take issue with my master over my actions.

More than that, I can reasonably claim she was a threat to operations—Sith and Imperial—on Taris or anywhere else she goes.

"Anyway, this place is about to explode. Much as I'd like to see you disintegrated—" She yelped as she turned to face me… a little too early for me to reach her and slice her in two, but it was obvious she hadn't sensed my murderous intent or my movement towards her.

She raised a hand and forced me back, but the motion was sloppy. Unfortunately, the shock only lasted a few seconds before it became anger mixed with fear. We both knew this had to end quickly if the survivor was going to get out.

The difference between Thana and me was that I'd spent enough time behind her to recognize some of the tics in her style of fighting, whereas she had only a few instances to try to find the same in mine. It gave me a significant advantage.

A lethal advantage.

And I had more than enough time to get out before the explosions began.


	30. Chapter 30

**On Passion**

I arrived at the Toxic Lake garrison to find that the _Astral Blight_ had arrived. I reached out to see who was aboard: Her Lordship and the Captain. Vette was missing, but this wasn't surprising: she often haunted the cantinas, picking up news and gossip. She was known to belong to Her Lordship, so no one would cause the girl any inconvenience or trouble, lest they bring down Her Lordship on them like a hammer for having indirectly interfered with her business.

No sooner had I dropped my things in the dormitory than the Captain's voice spiked unusually sharp, followed by something hitting the floor with force.

Her Lordship isn't prone to slamming furnishings around, though she sometimes will; the Captain certainly isn't prone to abusing poor, defenseless day-to-day artifacts, either. Still, coupled with the change in tone, I assumed it had to be him.

I went immediately for the cargo bay on silent feet, lightsaber in hand, just in case. Not that she would need _my_ help, but… it just made me feel better to be ready for anything. She has such a soft spot for the Captain. If anyone was able to slip an unexpected dagger between her ribs, it would be him. He was Baras' creature; I don't dare forget it, however much I wish I could.

The item that hit the floor was a datapad, which looked as though the thing had simply been scorned by the owner in a fit of pique. I didn't understand what all this was about, could only guess it had to do with the tense anger I'd sensed in Her Lordship when she contacted me a few days ago

The Captain's aura burned and blazed, as if all restraint had suddenly been stripped away and he was too tired of fighting it to cram it back into whatever little ammo can he kept it in. He also succumbed to better judgment: he had Her Lordship pinned against the wall, mouth pressed forcibly to hers as though demonstrating a point. There was fire and passion there, as well as something beyond words as her hand found one of his and he twisted their fingers together in a tight knot. She tilted her head for a better angle as if inviting the Captain to press his advantage or simply keep to this show of better judgment.

Invitation accepted, I think.

Despite being intensely uncomfortable, I found myself smirking: there's no way she's not enjoying _that_. No wonder she shut the door, so to speak, on our bond—it's more for my comfort than hers… or maybe she just doesn't want to share. One is as likely as the other.

Slowly, as if adjusting to the shock of the Captain showing such initiative (or backbone, as I prefer to call it), Her Lordship slowly softened in his arms; some of the forcefulness dissipated as tension slowly receded from the line of the Captain's shoulders.

It ceased to be making a point and became… exploratory, as if a boundary line had finally been crossed leaving them both to take in the new territory. Goodness knows it's not normal for Her Lordship—any Sith—to relinquish control as she's just done. We're control freaks, usually for good reason.

Apparently she thinks more highly of the man than I thought.

"You'll see," she murmured, her tone breathy as she slid her fingers into his hair. "Passion will make us stronger."

When he pressed his lips to her neck, he murmured, "I'm growing open to the idea." He sounded shaky, like he'd just come through something dangerous and discovered he was unhurt. He placed a line of kisses slowly and methodically along her neck, reminding me of a man testing his footing on an iced-over pond.

Her Lordship's breath unexpectedly caught; apparently he found a sensitive spot, for he lingered a moment.

Suddenly, watching made me feel _intensely_ uncomfortable.

Her timing was superb, or I gave myself away: Her Lordship opened her eyes, caught my gaze, freed a finger from tangling in his hair to emphasize the order she mouthed to me and sent rippling across our bond: 'go.'

I don't know what all this means, but it looks like none of my business. I can't say I'm sad.

The sounds of soft but intense kisses followed me as I disembarked the ship.

The last I heard of the Captain was inaudible, but spoken in a low, soft tone, earnest even. I was glad I wasn't eavesdropping at this point: I had no idea what he said, all I knew was that I would give a great deal for a tone like that, backed with such raw emotion, to be murmured against _my_ skin.

Let them have their privacy. Goodness knows she's worked hard enough for this—

 _No marks._

 _Are you certain? You don't sound at all certain._

I blinked as ideas rippled from Her Lordship through our bond, muted but…

 _I'm not in a good place to make decisions._

 _How unfortunate. You apparently brought me with you._

I shuddered, wondering why I could hear this. Her Lordship usually keeps the bond stifled so she doesn't have to share the Captain—

Oh. _Oh_. I gritted my teeth and imagined a lead curtain or a heavy stone rolling across our bond. Whatever Her Lordship had to say about the Captain being in the same place for questionable decisions, I didn't hear it (and was grateful). It was only now, when hearing things I didn't want, that I realized how much I relied on Her Lordship to keep things quiet between us, how much I took it for granted that she'd manage things in that quarter.

I hadn't bothered doing anything on my end… never had, as I thought about it.

I blushed in mortification. If _I_ haven't been applying myself to this… open window… how much has _she_ picked up?

O-oh…

 **On Light and Dark**

I didn't actually go to sleep at the garrison, planning as I was to return to the _Astral Blight_ as soon as I thought Her Lordship had gone to bed. After that point, I'm sure the Emperor could come knocking and Her Lordship would tear him apart with her bare hands for interrupting.

Rather, I slipped beneath the _Astral Blight_ since it was raining hard, and took the ritual deep breath before meditation, then moved into the first figure of the moving meditation Her Lordship taught me. Breathe in and out, perceptions opening. Precise and careful movement of muscle, bone, joint, tendon, ligament—all parts of a glorious machine that propels the mind and channels the Force.

I wasn't really searching for anything, simply listening out, flexing awareness beyond the five senses I'd depended on for so long, strengthening the muscles needed for additional perception, loosening the mind to accept information from something not eyes, tongue, ears, skin, nose…

Imperials unhappy in the humid heat and foul reek of their own base.

Mandalorians excited and enthusiastic over something.

Creatures moving through Taris—creatures that only come out at night. No raks, for which I was grateful, but big predators, tiny prey animals.

And…

A pop of light but… not a Jedi.

I frowned, holding my position, focusing on the pinprick of light. It immediately became difficult, like trying to see through a cloud or haze. It's easier to take in the generalities, but focus on specifics requires additional 'muscle strength.'

A pop of light but not a Jedi? How odd. It was gone a second later, hidden beneath a shell of darkness and it occurred to me that it might have gone unnoticed—a momentary slip—to anyone not actively watching in the second that dark shell failed.

I didn't prod at the shell, knowing I would be sensed if I did. I'd never tried to use my gift at distance, but I did then.

 _Light wrapped in darkness, a silent scream over chains of hatred. Why be Sith, it's so wasteful? Unacceptable to Jedi. Where does one go to escape it? Blood pumped from a wound, gushing. What good is ideology when I'm going to die in a place like this…? I should have run long ago, should have tried, approached a Knight and maybe… maybe—_

My eyes snapped open, stomach churning with hot acid. I automatically checked for my lightsaber, which was exactly where it needed to be. I turned on my heel without thought or word to anyone set off into the swamps. Her Lordship won't care as long as I'm back by morning and don't get badly injured. With every step, anger grew, then grew cold until I shook with contained rage, disgust, and the effort not to broadcast them so any or every Force-user could 'hear.'

 **On Traitors**

I followed the Sith I'd sensed through the Force, using that faculty and that faculty alone. It was difficult, grueling, punctuated by stops to reacquire my target. Once or twice I ended up walking in a circle. Out into the wilds of Taris, deeper and deeper into the ruins of that world. It seemed to me the Sith had lost herself and was bumbling around with no clear idea of where she needed to be, impinged by pain and stalked by fear… but she wasn't aware that she was actually sensing _me_.

I stopped in my progress, taking a deep breath and imagining myself as a gift, my gift, disembodied and wrapped over and over in layer after layer of fine Killik silk, muffled and silenced, obliterated from view. I tucked away my anger, my discontent, my open malevolence, putting them into a tiny box and slipping that box into the folds of the silk garment and then turning off the lights. Silk, box, gift and I faded out of sight, becoming nothing more than a shadow moving through darkness.

Once I was certain I could move about unseen and—which was the real challenge—unfelt, I continued the hunt. I'd never hunted like this before; apart from my resentments towards this weak-willed, Light-leaning Sith came a kind of heady expectation, a euphoria over being a true predator.

I'd done my job well; the Sith never sensed me coming, even when I'd literally come up behind her as she struggled to crawl through the muck. It looked as though she'd tangled with a nexu… but I thought it seemed more likely that she had been led into that fight by a rival.

In its hidden box, anger and resentment began to pulse. Her Lordship's old mentor said it was Sith of mixed blood that was eating away at the foundation of the Order, but he was wrong.

 _This_ is the invisible rot eating at the foundation of our Order: Sith like this one, those who should be grateful they were born on this side of the Empire, where life is what you make it, what you can contrive a future for yourself, rather than bland, endless, uninspired days of flat philosophy and masochistic self-repression.

The Sith suddenly sucked breath, turning in her slow progress. Her eyes didn't stick to me, but passed right over where I stood, indicating that either I slipped or she had a moment of unusual clarity. It was obvious after a few seconds that she could neither sense me nor see me—and I was only a few feet from her.

"H-hello?" she asked softly, voice thin with pain and quavering from fear.

Hmph. Fear leading to the Dark Side indeed. The truth is that fear takes you nowhere. It paralyzes you. It's a killer in and of itself.

I said nothing, merely considered this lying, dying Sith. Her pain and fear were thick on the air. She presents the appearance of Sith but she's a foul, stinking, loathsome thing beneath—leaning towards the light, too weak to be a Jedi even in her mind, certainly too weak to be a Sith if she's having these sorts of thoughts.

These are the actions of a traitor, and traitors are _executed_ …

But she didn't deserve a quick death, so I simply broke cover and stood there, watching her bleed out as she begged for aid, watched me do nothing to aid her.

 **On Meditation Trees**

Taris was nothing more than a million bright spots on a dark space. Red lights of Sith, blue lights of Jedi, and the multitudinous grey I liked for everyone else. I wasn't actively looking for anything, merely thinking and letting the mind-body meditation be a passive thing, a background hum for my buzzing thoughts. The little lights of Taris' population spun around me, glittering in the darkness.

The Sith are tainted.

I've been a Jedi and suffered because of it.

I've been to the Dark Temple, I've felt the absolute power of darkness—and it _is_ power.

I've weighed the two philosophies—that of the Sith and that of the Jedi—and found the latter too flawed to support itself.

The Sith are tainted.

The disappointment of finding this to be so made me feel utterly savage—it's like with bugs. Kill one, but unless you've found the nest, and sometimes not even then, you're not truly rid of them.

I stopped moving, aware that my body had begun to shake. I waited, forcing body and mind to diverge—the mind in turmoil, the body still—as if I were a deep, deep body of water whose currents moved too far down for anyone watching the surface to see.

The Sith are tainted. It's as simple as that.

And it made me _furious_ , brought the heat to my face and I had to still my trembling hands again. It cannot stand. How can no one else know…?

Ah, but I only knew because I looked, really looked, with my gift. I mean, I only noticed I needed to look because I saw the shift from light to darkness, because the Sith's pain had stripped away her cover for a few seconds.

My gift… isn't that odd, now?

I've always wondered what it was _for_ —and more so since Her Lordship ignores it so entirely for the most part. Why did the Force grant it to me, this strange insight that so many people value and which even more people fear—or would if they knew about it?

The Sith are tainted by an invisible rot. But it isn't invisible to _me_.

Isn't that something? I can see into the hearts of others, I spent time being a Dark Side detector for Nomen Karr. It never occurred to me to use it against the Jedi and even as I thought about it the idea of having done so was ridiculous: the Jedi are so down their own throats about the Dark Side that they imagine shadows where they don't exist and miss the ones that do—and they fool their apprentices into seeing the same nonexistent shadows until the nonexistent eclipses the reality and brings them into the fold, terrified and alone.

It's pretty pathetic.

But the Sith… they're tainted, and I can see the taint. I know where to apply the scalpel to carve out this cancer. Is that why I have my gift? Is that why I fell into the hands of Her Lordship? The Jedi—and some Sith—believe that the Force is more sentient than not. The Jedi call it the Living Force and treat it as a philosophy… but both sides believe in Destiny, as if it's controlled by something greater, suggesting this philosophy is simply a pan-Order acknowledgement of something out of reach.

Is that why I'm here? Has Destiny called out to me and brought me to this point to purge the ranks of the Sith Order?

It… could be. Ever since joining Her Lordship, I've been looking more and more for a reason for my power, for an application that would make it feel like something less than a fluke among gifts or a parlour trick. It's begun to help me innately, but that help is patchy.

This, though…

Some Jedi, mostly older ones, keep these little trees—pretty little things that the Jedi in question prunes and teases into shape. It's a living kind of art form—meditation trees, they're called. Cared for and coaxed year after year, each tree guided to some state of finality or perfection which is all in the mind of the artist.

I could unbox the anger and resentment now, because they had grown small enough to not shake my body with their intensity—and I promptly dumped the contents of that mental box into the deep pit where I keep such angers and resentments against the day when I need them.

I imagined a tree, black with dark leaves, scraggly and shaggy, unpruned, unsculpted.

And with mental shears, I clipped the most out-of-place of those chaotic branches.

It's a start.

 **Reporting on Taris**

I had the distinct impression that although the Captain and Her Lordship had come to an understanding about getting involved they weren't actually involved yet. If they had, you'd think that the next morning the Captain wouldn't look as pressed and starched as he always does.

I found myself a bit disappointed on their behalves, but what do I know about grown-up games? I call them that only because when they do play I always end up feeling like a child.

Still, a kind of energy hummed between them, a two-sided tension that made me think the Captain had agreed—not in so many words—in earnest to join in Her Lordship's game.

Well, you know what they say about a particularly fine meal: anticipation is the best sauce.

…not that I want to think about that too much.

"Jaesa," Her Lordship beamed. "So, how did it go?"

The Captain deftly slipped a datapad off the table and out of sight onto the bench between them. I could only assume it was a report from the various people I'd worked for during her absence.

I took a deep breath and gave her a brisk account of the major salient points, watching her expression grow more and more smugly satisfied.

"I can see I must consider letting you work on your own a little more often, if these are the results I can expect," Her Lordship said, adding milk to her tea. "I'm quite pleased with your handling of the various situations—unexpected ones at that—which cropped up. And what do you think of Lt. Pierce? I did leave him with you to be used."

"I think that Pierce would be an excellent addition to the crew," I answered, ignoring the Captain's pained grimace.

Her Lordship did too, but she smirked a little.

"He's direct and competent, he can think on his feet. He wants to serve you, and I don't have the impression he changes his mind about masters very often. We could use a powerhouse, which he is, and his experiences with demolitions will be useful. The more dangerous a job is, the more likely he is to be glad to jump in—but he's not stupid about danger, either. It's embarrassing to get killed for being overeager—and only living men get to watch their unit's reputation grow."

I wondered what it cost the Captain to keep quiet.

"Also useful would be his connections to Black Ops."

"Oh? Do you think so?" Her Lordship asked, sipping her tea.

I knew she would… and I suddenly wondered if she and the Captain—or just her on her own—weren't playing footsies under the table. I don't know, there was just something so prim about the way she was so innocently drinking her morning tea. It wouldn't surprise me. It would also make discussion of Pierce more bearable for the Captain.

I glanced at the Captain, but found him impervious, listening with one ear but—since listening and eating are not mutually exclusive—not neglecting his breakfast. But I that could just as easily be his way of not thinking about Pierce any more than he had to.

"Yes. His team, before they were disbanded, received special orders from General Rakton," I answered, pouring myself a cup of tea.

I looked into my own tea and expanded my consciousness. Sure enough: footsies under the table. Except he was the one teasing her ankle, not the other way round as I expected.

The mention of General Rakton caught the Captain's attention, but didn't actually hold it.

"If Baras is moving to break up the Treaty of Coruscant, there is a likelihood that such an effective unit as Pierce's will be reactivated. If he's serving a Sith directly, it adds luster on his Sith handler." And, conversely, luster on him for having come into the service of this particular rising star of a Sith. Pierce strikes me as being astute enough—under that somewhat ham-handed exterior—to know all of this. "They were go-to people. Assassination of some Moff, Operation Force Crush, massacre at… ahroon-cow?" I stumbled over this, glancing to the Captain for clarification.

"Haruun Kal, I believe," the Captain supplied. Then, when Her Lordship glanced at him, silently interrogative, "He talks far more than is wise for someone associated with black ops—there's a reason they're called _black_ operations."

Well… Pierce has a funny accent sometimes… and while I know he likes to brag on his unit—his _unit_ , mind—I think he also knows when to keep his mouth shut. Maybe he's not as unsubtle as I thought: maybe he guessed I'd be the one Her Lordship asked about him, so he made sure I knew what a bargain she'd be getting. A little too much chatter because he knew it would get back to the right ears but not end up in the wrong ones.

"He's not fussed about rising through the ranks, either—which is good. The right man for the right job, even if it isn't him. He does have… some problems with authority." I gave the Captain a significant look. Sith authority is something totally different. "But he didn't seem to have them with me. So perhaps it would be better to say _military authority._ "

The Captain's expression clearly read 'oh, joy' before he downed his caf. He suddenly set his cup down rather too hard, but from something coy in the twist of Her Lordship's mouth it was because she'd started doing something footsie-ish under the table. I say this because both her hands were in plain view.

"And what have you to add, Quinn? I know you'll have done some homework," Her Lordship prompted.

The Captain gave a slight cough and probably pinned her teasing foot so as to keep her distractions to a minimum during serious conversation.

She demurely continued with her tea, the very picture of propriety.

I found myself wanting to grin, but knew better… until I looked up. She tilted her head and winked at me so the Captain wouldn't see.

I hid behind my cup so he wouldn't see me trying desperately not to laugh. I'm happy she's— _they're_ , I suppose—happy.

"His unit was broken up after the Treaty of Coruscant—or rather, because of it. They were considered a liability," the Captain answered, because of course he had looked into the prospective recruit.

"Which means they're an asset now," Her Lordship mused.

My mouth dropped open at the implications, shoving all considerations of this cute game she and he were playing hidden but still in plain sight.

"Yes, you're understandably behind the times, stuck in this swamp as you've been," she declared, regarding her tea thoughtfully.

I knew their morning game was over with this arrival at very serious matters.

"I'm afraid that Dark Vengean's plan for the Fringe Systems failed. The Treaty of Coruscant is no more, and the Dark Council will doubtless be howling for blood soon if they aren't already. They don't like it when one of them goes off on his own without consulting the others."

Then… we're at _war_. And since all this has been on Baras' orders… then Baras must be getting ready to make a play for Vengean's seat on the Dark Council. My skin began to crawl at the thought. I don't think it will mean a promotion and honors for Her Lordship.

I swallowed hard. "I appreciate you telling me all this my lord. But you asked me about Pierce. Shall I continue my report?" Otherwise I might get so off-topic she'll have to drag me back onto it, disarranged and no longer organized in my thoughts.

"Certainly."

I took a deep breath and let it out before speaking. "Having worked with the man, I wouldn't call him undisciplined. Merely… well, he gets the job done. You may have to tug on his leash every so often, but only because he's very enthusiastic when he sets out to do something. I think he will provide a much needed dimension to your crew's areas of specialization."

"And your final suggestion?" Her Lordship asked me.

I sipped my tea, then set the cup down, hoping to present the picture of poise, as if having my opinion treated as actionable criteria didn't give me tingles and butterflies. "Take him with us. You can always kick him out the airlock later if he doesn't suit you. _Never_ waste a potential resource." I believed every word I said, knowing she would sense that surety.

Her Lordship's smile was nothing short of brilliant and it had nothing to do with the Captain.

 **On Changes**

I gasped as I looked at myself in the mirror. I hadn't done so in what felt like weeks, which would have accounted for some differences between my mind's eye's memory of my own face and what I actually saw.

But it was more than time away from a mirror that looked back at me. Cheekbones stood out a touch more sharply, my jaw looked a little more defined, and my shoulders had begun to take on a slightly firmer tone. But what caught me most were the eyes, which had turned amber. Beneath a veil of dark lashes in an olivine sea reposed a pair of bright eyes, honey-toned almost, with an acute alertness behind them. Birdlike, even.

I knew that the Dark Side corrupts its adherents—trading looks for power—but I hadn't expected to see such an overt sign of it working on me so quickly. Then again… I do shadow Her Lordship, and she's _much_ further down the paths of power than I am. It makes sense that I'd learn quickly since I so desperately _want_ to learn.

Still, it was strange not to see the gentle (that is to say unremarkable and boring) brown I'd known all my life.

I found myself smirking at my reflection in the mirror, a lopsided almost sarcastic thing that didn't look like the hesitant smile, or the carefully-measured one, I'd also known most of my life. I began chuckling softly, then snickering, biting my lip to keep the pleased laughter from bubbling up.

Shred by shred, the old life peels away.

The sooner the better. I don't want to be that girl anymore.


	31. Chapter 31

**On Collateral Damage**

I woke with a start and was halfway out of the dormitory, lightsaber in hand, before I realized why.

Her Lordship's scream had woken everyone. I vaguely remembered the physical sound, something that had clawed its way out of her throat, born aloft by rage and indignation, but it was the mind-cutting shriek through the Force, like rusty serrated blades across the senses, burning hot and acid-laced that occupied my attention. It undulated and wound on and on, the bloodcurdling howl of an injured thing, savage in its pain, out for the blood of whoever struck the blow.

I arrived first and was aghast. "My lord!"

She stood at the holoterminal, rigid and shaking. All around her the Force roiled and pitched, a nauseating miasma that made me not want to get too close to her, otherwise I might vomit. Her face, already pale to begin with, was blanched to the very lips, utterly bloodless, and her eyes seemed to burn like red coals in her face. Red began to slowly blotch into her cheeks. Trembling and enraged as she was, she was the very image of an unholy terror. Every line stood out, etched with the bitterest kind of hatred.

"Oh _wow_ …" Vette whispered, shivering softly as she inched behind me.

Pierce, big as he was, confident as he was, hung back. He might not be able to sense the subtext of Her Lordship's mood, but he was smart enough when to let Sith business be Sith business. He got credit for being the new guy and not running as far as he could in the other direction.

I'd _never_ seen her so angry. It hung in the air, squeezing at my lungs.

"My lord?" the Captain, at least, _sounded_ composed. I don't think he felt that way, though. Anyone with an ounce of sense would walk softly around Her Lordship if she was in such a rage as to actually _show_ it… and apparently because she lacked the discipline to shut it in and hide it.

Her Lordship held up a hand, which shook with tension. She swallowed, her mouth twisted into a grim pucker, her eyes narrowing. "Jaesa." Her voice was lower than usual, tense and I felt it was only through iron will that it didn't shake as the rest of her did.

"My lord?" I asked meekly, inching forward.

"You once asked me what I would do if anyone ever dared act against someone close to me." Her words were even and measured, only the physical betrayals of rage gave away that she was not alright. "Well… you're about to find out. Quinn. I'm attending a funeral."

"…not your parents?" he asked, sounding cautious about the subject.

"Oh, no," Her Lordship answered, her aura still curling and writhing… but it had gone cold, slimy and gross, which was all the more frightening. I'd never seen Her Lordship truly in a rage and I wish I never had. I always say, or would if asked, she could flatten a world without trouble… but I'd never had concrete reason to believe the sentiment might just be literal.

You could tell the others felt her upset: it showed in squinting eyes and wrinkled brows, something just out of hearing that tugged on them. For once she did not have her rage fully under control and we all felt it to some degree.

They were lucky they had no sense of the Force; she was giving me a headache.

"Uncle Tim seems to have been targeted… and as there's no doubt I would attend the funeral there's no doubt that there will be… well-wishers." Her tone had utterly resumed its normal cadence, and while she still shook, her aura seemed to creep back towards her, coiling itself like rope—a rope she meant to hang or garrote someone with. Even as it all coiled up, her eyes took on a certain glassiness that, beginning to catch in her lower eyelid, could only be one thing.

"Who was it, my lord?" I asked, frowning.

Her Lordship actually smiled, but it was a smile that brought her features almost to the point of ugliness. "Lord Grathan seems to have less common sense than I gave him credit for."

"Lord Grathan? Like the guy on Dromund Kaas?" Vette asked. "Like the assassin on Balmorra?"

"The very same. Quinn, please redirect us to Dromund Kaas. Pierce, Vette, Jaesa, I apologize for waking you." There was dismissal in her words.

Vette frowned, then moved a few steps towards Her Lordship, who now rested her weight on the holoterminal as she brooded. The invisible rancor that is the Force hanging near her seemed to crouch low over her, malevolent and threatening, mirroring its mistress. "Maybe… maybe you'd like a hot drink? I was gonna make some cocoa anyway…" She made the offer so softly that it was clear she wanted to retreat… but had enough sincere concern for Her Lordship not to want to just beat feet.

"Thank you Vette, but I think not."

"Yeah… yeah, okay…" Vette withdrew, shivering as she went, her distress evident.

Pierce fell in behind her.

I reached out for the Captain, found his mind full of fear (not for himself), concern (again, not for himself), and a sympathy Her Lordship would reject sharply if it was offered. He didn't like to see her hurting… and her being this angry was, in his mind, the same thing.

He did the only thing he could do: the Captain withdrew as well—but to the cockpit and not to his quarters, just as he'd been commanded.

"Are we going to make a corpse of this lord?" I asked stoically.

"No." It was clear the idea of not effecting revenge _right now_ turned her stomach.

"Why not… my lord?" The question was out before I could stop it, and I tacked on the honorific because I knew I was getting close to a line she would expect me not to cross…

She turned sharply to glare at me, then held up a hand as if to indicate the sharpness was not something I should take personally. She was in a touchy mood, but not so touchy as to stilt my training. I just had to deal with her slightly slower than usual reflexes when it came to being questioned and the fury buffeting her around.

Still, that look could have stopped a charging gundark.

She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders. "Because he is currently useful to Darth Baras. I will, of course, indicate that Grathan has made it clear he intends to pursue this matter. Perhaps he isn't _that_ useful. After all, his stupidity begins to compromise _me_ and I am, as yet, a valuable asset."

Her tone suggested she might ignore any order Baras gave in that quarter, since she'd made it clear he'd begun cleaning house, and use 'ask forgiveness, not permission' as an excuse. Once the house was clean she was a liability, since she knew quite literally where the bodies were buried.

To a paranoid mind, she's not a 'safe' apprentice. In reality, she's quite content with her position; no reason to be 'an unsafe' apprentice.

"If I hadn't already killed his wife… well. I'm sure I can find _some_ way of conveying my lack of tolerance for these antics." By now, she had all her emotions buttoned up again. It seemed impossible that something so large could be confined so neatly and quickly, but she'd managed it. Now, all that remained were the physical traces and even those were fading.

"Are you sure he'll have agents at the funeral? It seems a bit… well. It lacks subtlety."

"Quite. But how else is he supposed to get to me? I don't exactly leave my itinerary around where an enemy could find it. And he knows not to cross Lord Augustine himself, directly or indirectly. Such would be suicide. So Uncle Tim and his funeral were his only options."

That and she keeps her Captain close, out of reach… and doesn't noise it around that he's actually important.

"But… you're Darth Baras' most distinguished apprentice! Isn't it suicide to go against _you_ —directly or indirectly?"

"And Grathan's a renegade—he has been under siege for _months_. He might not even be on Dromund Kaas any longer. He doesn't care. He has reason to believe he doesn't need to care." Her knuckles blanched. "But he's useful to Baras and for whatever reason the Dark Council hasn't seen fit to flatten him." There was an air of savagery in Her Lordship's tone that I wasn't used to hearing. "You wanted to know what would happen if someone hurt someone I loved. Watch closely. It begins at a funeral."

I inclined my head and withdrew, leaving Her Lordship brooding over the holoterminal. She admitted to having loved her godfather. I couldn't tell if it didn't matter who knew now that he was dead, because she was that far into the throes of grief, or if it was because I'm her apprentice and she doesn't care if I know.

"Did you know she could be that scary?" Vette demanded as I entered the dormitory, looking pasty.

Pierce, sitting in his bunk, said nothing, but he was clearly listening in.

"She's Sith," I answered with a shrug. "But I've never seen her like this, no." Then again, no one's ever struck out at her like this. I won't say she thought herself above attack, but it's always a shock when it happens. At least… that's my experience… well, maybe not. I didn't think I'd be acted against through people I cared about. Her Lordship has probably been aware of the possibility since she was old enough to understand the concept.

Vette shuddered at this.

"You mentioned Lord Grathan when you told me about Balmorra," I observed.

This time Pierce shifted so he sat with his legs hanging over the edge rather than sprawling at his ease.

Vette shifted uncomfortably. "I dunno… she's _so_ pissed off right now…"

"It's not exactly sensitive information," I pointed out.

"Rather know what's coming than not—especially if it touched her off like that. Figures a red-headed Sith'd have a temper like the end of the world," Pierce grunted, shaking his head.

I had to laugh at this, if only a little. That's a wonderful way to sum it up.

At that moment, the Captain appeared in the doorway. He said nothing, merely frowned, positioned himself just inside the door and leaned against the frame, arms crossed, expression grave… and directed at Vette as if silently commanding her to spill the beans. That he was demanding answers of her just went to show how distressing this whole episode was for him.

Vette sighed. "I'm blaming you all. Seriously, I'll throw each and every one of you under the rapid transit speeder if she gets mad at me for talking too much."

Silence.

Vette sighed again, tugging one of her _lekku_ over her shoulder and drumming a nervous tattoo on it. "Okay. Fine."

 **Vette: On Lord Grathan**

Author's Note: It is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and how much is kept within the confines of Vette's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

Dromund Kaas is always wet and rainy—it's no wonder Imperials have _no_ sense of humor. And we were going to the epicenter of no sense of humor. Apparently, there's such a thing as a stupid Sith. Who knew?!

The thing was that this lord—Grathan, Darth Creepy called him—was a renegade with a pretty big ego. The Boss was supposed to slip in, make contact with Baras' guy, send Grathan a message, and then slip right back out. I imagined it would be a bloody one—or should be, since lightsabers aren't really suited to literally _bloody_ messages.

Well, apparently the Boss wasn't the only one sending a message: there was so much fighting going on that it was _amazing_. It was almost impossible to tell who else was after this Grathan guy and his men seemed to have reached the point where they were being selective about who they wanted to fight. Tough customers like the Boss were low on the list of people to engage.

Probably wise, on the whole.

Our contact was a fella named Dri'kill Ba'al, a mole Darth Creepy seeded in some time ago. He hadn't been too hard to find, surprisingly, and he had a game plan for us.

He didn't think much of the Boss, but that might have been attitude—cause I kinda liked his attitude. Still… wouldn't want to work for the guy, myself.

Turns out Grathan had a son, and rather than killing Grathan—which Darth Creepy absolutely didn't want—we were supposed to kill his kid. That made sense, I guess. I mean it was a tough break for the kid—and 'kid' was a pretty loose term since he was apparently twenty, maybe a little older—but the Boss made it sound like it was just Sith politics. Nothing special.

Made me wonder if anyone ever tried something with her, or rather with her dad, like what we were trying with Grathan. If they did, _clearly_ it didn't work. Made me wonder how young she was when she killed her first sapient. Not that I'd ever ask.

The mission was pretty straightforward: we had to disable some security systems—which was where I was totally invaluable, since a lightsaber stuck through tech is pretty obvious—and then find our way to the wing of the house where the kid was supposed to be. Ba'al had a sketch-map for us, which made things a lot less complicated—but warned us that the house was pretty well locked down because of the chaos outside.

It said something to me that the chaos didn't bother him too much. Him or, apparently, this Grathan guy. Beats me why a Sith lord powerful enough to go rogue—and to do it on Dromund Kaas—hadn't put down all the noise in his backyard. Maybe Sith standards are different.

It was later on in the evening, and quite clear that most of the fighting hadn't made it as far as we did. The house itself was pretty quiet, and I think only my careful work with the security systems let us get in so easily. I'd _like_ to think so, anyway. Maybe the Boss was just doing something weird and Sithy.

The Boss went in first, simply palming the door open with one hand, a lightsaber easy and unignited in the other.

There were two people in the room: a blonde kid, pretty well built, and a woman in a weird hat.

Trust me: Dromund Kaas is the capital of the Empire, but it's also the capital of weird hats. Seriously.

We caught them during dinner, but this wasn't the dining room. Apparently the chaos outside was too much for their delicate Sithy digestions.

Not that I blame them. It was pretty crazy outside.

"Mother…" the kid bounded to his feet.

The woman got to her feet her expression grim and a little disdaining. "Hellanix." Her eyes fell to the lightsabers in the Boss' hands, while her kid looked confusedly between the Boss and his mother.

" _Cellvanta_ ," the Boss announced, entering the room with an easy, measured step.

Then two of them just stood there, sizing one another up.

"I take it you're not here to give me Magdalena's best?" she asked, arching her heavily-painted eyebrows.

"Her best derision certainly, but no. That's not why I'm here."

"I'd ask if you were on Sith business, but there'd be little point."

I glanced at the Boss, who smiled, catlike. "I don't know—I rather think Korriban agreed with me. It says something, don't you think?" the Boss gave the kid a slow look, as though heavily implying that if she could handle Korriban there was no way she couldn't handle the kid.

"You're a little old for it, I'll give you that," Cellvanta answered darkly. "It's done nothing for your complexion."

"So tell me, boy, did _you_ find Korriban enlightening?" the Boss asked, unfazed by Cellvanta's jabs. "Your mother sets such high store in attending the Academy."

A muscle in Cellvanta's cheek tightened, as if the Boss had just said something particularly cutting. I guess the kid had never been to Korriban—too _dangerous_ for him maybe. Well… things just got even more dangerous. Korriban might have been a good choice.

"I've not yet been," he answered stiffly.

" _Now_ who's mollycoddling?" the Boss asked Cellvanta with a twisted grin.

"Would you care to tell me what this is all about?" Cellvanta demanded, making a motion that stopped her son from coming around the table. It was clear that Cellvanta understood that the Boss was a real threat whereas the kid—Beelzlit, I think Ba'al called him—did not. Or maybe he thought his 'private tutoring' made him better than a Korriban graduate.

I mean, the Boss always makes it sound like her original training was better than Korriban… but I've never seen any proof to the contrary. Makes me glad sometimes that the Korriban model isn't like the one that trained her.

"It won't matter very soon," the Boss answered simply. "I'm here for your son, Cellvanta. Unfortunately… you seem to be in my way."

"Beezlit, take cover," Cellvanta snapped, flicking her lightsaber out.

"No, Mother!" the kid cried gallantly, throwing the table aside with the Force.

Without the physical obstacle, the Boss was between them in seconds, although Cellvanta was fast enough to keep the Boss from killing Beelzlit with her first strike. Cellvanta Force-pushed her son out of the way and nearly lost the arm that made the gesture.

The Boss and Cellvanta hammered on each other for a few minutes, Beelzlit trying to find a way to get in, but every time it looked like he had any opportunity to interject himself, his mother gave him a push to keep him out of the way. It said something that Cellvanta managed to hold off the Boss _and_ keep her kid safe for as long as she did.

Suddenly, the Boss ducked Cellvanta's swing, turned, vaulted the downed table and brought herself face-to-face with Beelzlit, who'd been trying to circle around her. She raised one hand before pivoting to point her lightsaber at a stock-still Cellvanta.

Beelzlit hung in the air, hands scrabbling at his throat—and from his expression he was trying to ignore the sensation in order to lash out at the one who had hold of him. Trying… and failing.

Her Lordship always said when someone has you in a Force choke don't waste time trying to disengage the pressure at your neck, because it'll never work: disengage the person controlling the attack.

Cellvanta knew it and for several minutes she threw furnishings, lightning, everything she could at the Boss, who deflected it all without losing her grip on the kid.

"Enough," Cellvanta said, her tone constricted with anger. There was no question of her getting to the Boss and actually doing physical harm before the Boss killed Beelzlit—one twitch of the Boss' wrist and the kid's neck would snap like a toothpick. There was no chance of Beelzlit getting loose of the grip the Boss had on him or he'd have done it already. "Enough… it's clear we are not your match."

"It's good of you to admit as much," the Boss answered grimly. Clearly the comment didn't go as far as Cellvanta had hoped.

"Before you kill us, I must know… what have we done to deserve death?"

I didn't know the Boss really well, but I could tell the question touched off her temper like nothing else so far.

" _Deserve_ death?" the Boss repeated, tone tight with disgust. "Whoever said this was about _you_? And that a Sith—wife of a powerful Sith lord, a _renegade_ Sith lord—should ask should ask _that_ …" Her words cut off, strangled with the intensity of her disgust.

Beelzlit began to writhe and choke in earnest as the Boss tightened her grip—so to speak.

"And you thought _you_ could train him?" the Boss demanded, her eyes fixed on the horrorstruck Sith before her. "Make him Sith through the virtue of a _private education_ after having judged such things as 'unworthy'? And with such a flawed outlook as _that_? I never thought you a fool until now, Cellvanta. Congratulations on deceiving so many for so long."

I'm… sensing some private issues here.

The Boss snapped Beelzlit's neck with one motion of her hand. Before he finished falling to the ground the Boss had cleared the distance between Cellvanta and herself, shoving her lightsaber through the woman before yanking it free. Cellvanta collapsed to the ground, breath coming in wheezes.

Another stroke of the Boss' lightsaber and the pitiful sounds stopped.

"We're done here," the Boss announced, sounding thoroughly disgusted.

 **An Interlude**

"And that was it," Vette finished. "I mean, we had to fight our way out because that Ba'al guy got clever—or thought he'd try—but that was it! Then we got that guy on Balmorra—the Boss sent his head back to Grathan with a nasty little note. I thought the guy'd given up on messing with the Boss. You'd think he'd have figured it out." Vette rolled her eyes.

Without knowing Cellvanta's and Her Lordship's relationship before they ended up on opposite ends of a fight, I couldn't say much. All I could say was that I could see how Cellvanta had succeeded in aggravating Her Lordship. I _thought_ I could see why. "Well… I suppose all we can do is wait for Grathan to be less useful to Baras," I said with a sigh.

"And give the Boss a _wide_ berth," Vette added. "I've _never_ seen her like that."

"Didn't think a Sith could care for anyone enough to get that worked up," Pierce remarked, shaking his head.

"And it's best if that remains the fiction others believe," the Captain put in snappishly.

Well he might be concerned, since Her Lordship cares a great deal for him… but I know the man well enough to know it's not his hide he's worried about. It's sweet of him.

 **An Eye for an Eye**

I'd never been to a funeral before, but Moff Timothy Thorne's promised to be a very notable affair. The crowd in attendance was huge. I thought that Lord Augustine and Magdalena might not come—because he had to know this was a Sith antic—but they were both there, sitting in the front row. Even from the back I could tell that Lord Augustine was every inch the Sith today and in no angelic mood—by Sith standards, of course. He seethed where he sat.

There were a great many people present, which just went to show how important—or, at least, well-respected—Moff Thorne had been.

Her Lordship stood at the back of the crowd, unnoticed as yet.

"My lord… let me help you," I said meekly. After several days of restraint, she'd allowed herself to return to a towering rage, but she'd tamped it down and put it under lock and key until it was only a burning sensation against our bond—something she'd tried to shut tight and hadn't succeeded in doing. Thankfully, I'd begun seriously applying myself to keeping _my_ end of the bond closed, so the faint burning was all I had to worry about.

"Thank you, Jaesa." But, this time, she didn't dismiss the offer.

I looked at the crowd—there were more than a few Sith present—and frowned. Many were here for reasons other than lamenting the dearly departed…

"There. There are three," I said. "In the third row from the back, three Sith sitting together. They're waiting for you. And they'll wait until the funeral is over—too many important Sith here to irritate by breaking it up… you're late, and they're worried."

She's usually fashionably late but for all her insistence on setting a speed record for getting here, I'd honestly thought she'd forego that. Then again, this is an execution doubling as a funeral.

"Thank you."

"What are we waiting for?" I asked after the funeral rites began.

"Quinn. Or the eulogies, whichever comes first."

The Sith had, finally, noticed her—it showed in the way they shifted uneasily, waiting… waiting… nervous. Their backs were to her, uncomfortably exposed. They must not be Lord Grathan's best—just the best he had on hand. This isn't retaliation; this is a formality, a show of spite with throwaway 'assassins.' Or to tell her he's flexing his muscles preparatory to _really_ exerting himself towards her directly.

"My lord," the Captain called softly, just when Her Lordship began to get antsy. He said nothing more, merely handed over a datapad.

An unholy smile crossed her face as she handed him the datapad. "It's _fate_ , Quinn."

"Say rather coincidence at this point, my lord," the Captain declared delicately.

Her Lordship merely chuckled, then turned on her heel. "Stay here, Jaesa. In case anyone tries anything horrifically foolish."

Like taking a swing at the Captain. I reached over and grabbed the sleeve of his tunic near the shoulder. "She wants you safely out of sight." I drew the Force around both of us, curtains and curtains of thick, wonderful sumptuous invisible velvet; invisibility that hung from us in long, luxurious folds, minimizing us from those with above-average perceptions and utterly obliterating us from the attention of those without.

The Captain settled back into position, but didn't look happy.

Her Lordship did wait until the officer presiding asked if anyone had anything to say—but that was for dramatic effect… and so as to not totally ruin her godfather's funeral.

"I shall speak," Her Lordship said in a carrying tone that didn't tremor, didn't quiver. Her anger had bottled itself up and was simply waiting for the fuse to burn off. "The Moff was a dear friend of my family for many years, an excellent mentor and a true patriot. With his passing, the Empire has suffered a great loss." She stopped level with the third row from the back, then turned on her heel to face Grathan's men. "And your master killed him."

The fight wrecked the funeral, those closest to Grathan's men scattering, discretion being the better part of valor.

I only saw it because I was on the lookout for trouble, something that might blindside Her Lordship. Or, I should say, I only saw _them_ because I was on the lookout.

Two Purebloods stood back from the fight, but much closer than most people would want to be. One was tall and athletic, the other short and slight. They both stood there, completely and utterly unmoving, their eyes fixed on the fray as Her Lordship, with a precision higher even than her usual degree, proceeded to kill all three of Grathan's men. It was like watching a mudslide decimate a house… and for a few seconds they were actually _in_ the middle of the fight, which seemed to flow around them as if all the combatants were somehow… I don't know. Like the two Purebloods projected an aura or something that kept the fighters from coming close without inhibiting the fight.

It was unnerving in the extreme.

It was also clear I was the only one who could see these two Sith, and their attention to Her Lordship made me edgy.

Once Grathan's men were dead—and in pieces—Her Lordship approached the coffin ready to be lowered into the moist earth. She touched it gently. "Most leave flowers to make a friend's passing. But when one murders the friend of a Sith, far better to leave corpses. Wait only a little longer, Uncle Tim, and you'll have the blood of the one who sent them, too." With that, she turned on her heel and marched away, leaving the funeral to complete however it would.

Neither she nor Lord Augustine acknowledged one another… and yet I had the distinct impression this was as it should be.

She didn't notice the two Sith and, before I could bring them to her attention… they were gone.


	32. Chapter 32

**On (Someone Else's) Progress**

"Is that it?" Her Lordship asked, sounding highly interested in whatever had her attention. "You've got it already?"

"It is," the Captain answered.

I slipped out of the cargo bay. The Captain had his back to me; since he had all of her Lordship's attention, she didn't give me any notice, either. Whatever he showed her was small, but I caught a glimpse of a white box, not unlike the kind used to hold jewelry.

"And _quite_ well-deserved," she noted, regarding whatever was in the box. "I hope it's the first of many." Suddenly, she gave a low chuckle, the kind that made the Captain shift uneasily. "Now, here's the big question."

"I hesitate to wonder," the Captain answered guardedly… but not so guardedly that Her Lordship would back down and leave him alone.

He confuses me. It's clear they mutually desire one another; he admitted he was open to the idea of pursuing something with her. Her Lordship is quite clear on where she stands; she's not looking for something as simple as a toy. I _know_ she entertains a genuine affection for him. Anyone who knew her and saw her go after Ferraire back on Taris would see that.

Ferraire had a narrow brush with being literally smashed to pulp before being torn to shreds… and that was just because his project presented an as-then-nebulous threat to the Captain and her godfather.

But back to the original topic, I don't understand why he holds himself back. It's like… he's not afraid of her, it's more like he's afraid of something on his side. Maybe he doesn't _quite_ trust that she's not looking for a toy—just a long-term one; if his affection for her is genuine—as I believe it is—then perhaps his hang-up is not wanting to watch her grow bored with him. Sith have reputations; I suppose he'd be more aware of them than I would be, would have to work harder to dismiss them as 'simple notions' where Her Lordship is concerned.

Oh, Captain. She's putting too much effort into you to get bored.

Some part of him has to know that; otherwise he'd be better at setting her at a distance. I believe she really would respect a definitive 'no, thank you.' She's said as much. I've also noticed that she's quite respectful of his personal space: while she might indicate through action that she would _like_ to touch him, she usually waits for him to act on the cue and initiate, or give her a cue that it's alright.

Since that conversation after Taris, she's a bit freer with initiating minor affectionate gestures and space incursions. Only minor ones, though: brush of a hand here, leaning a little closer than propriety demands, but always watching to see when tension becomes discomfort or unease.

Oh, and occasional footsies under the table. Let's not forget that.

It's safe to say that in this… whatever you want to call it—'dynamic' works—he's the one with the power. He says when to move forward or when she needs to step back (or hints it). She might push his comfort levels a little, but never too much, never enough to put his back against the wall or stress him out.

Maybe he's just out of practice dealing with women (not that Her Lordship is in any way average). He's not the highly social type. From what I understand years of exile and disgrace haven't done much for his self-image. Maybe _that's_ the crux of things: she threatens to breathe new life into him on a personal level, while he's still getting used to being free. Fear of the unknown. Fear that something bad is waiting for that moment when he thinks he's steady or finds a good thing. It's an ingrained thing; he might not even be aware of it himself.

Her Lordship chuckled, genuine amusement and fondness in the tone. "Will you let me put it where it goes?"

The Captain hesitated, then shifted uneasily. He must have been looking her in the eye, or thereabouts, because she didn't prompt him or let him off the hook. "Do you… know how everything should go?" he asked guardedly, as if he was about to step wildly out of his own comfort zone.

Looking at this, I had to wonder. That was a hot kiss—series of kisses—after Taris. Did something change or was that just an unusually charged, raw moment that crashed through personal issues?

Note to self: stick to uncomplicated men. No man could _possibly_ be worth these kinds of mental knots. Not for me, anyway.

"I have a good idea, but I can see you're uncomfortable. I am very glad for you. It's well-deserved and, I hope, the first of many," she repeated, unoffended.

Her respectful withdrawal—for while she sounded a little formal there was no doubting her sincerity—was interrupted when the Captain silently slipped the white box under her hand. I'd _almost_ say 'shyly.'

Her Lordship looked surprised, but took the box, a smile warming her features. She studied his face a few moments longer, satisfying herself that this was genuine choice on his part, then took the things out of the little box, setting the box on the nearest surface. For several moments, she fiddled with his uniform, while the Captain stood even more ramrod straight than usual, if that was possible… but something in that posture suggested a keen awareness of _her_.

"There. It everything correct?" Her Lordship asked, tone suggesting she knew it was. In fact, she'd probably studied whatever it was; I thought all this might be a change in his rank or the addition of some medal indicating merit or achievement.

"Perfectly," he answered, not sounding surprised, but… well. It was a moment, one he seemed loath to break now that it had settled. He certainly didn't seem troubled by the fact that she had not restored a polite distance.

"Good." With that, she patted his chest as though putting a finishing touch on him.

Suddenly, he stepped back, clearing his throat and becoming awkward again. "My lord—"

Her brows contracted as she took another step back, restoring polite distance. "I told you," Her Lordship broke in softly. "When you're comfortable."

They could be waiting a couple _decades_ , then. Unless she knows how to wind him up so he snaps out of his hang-ups on his own. That sounds likely. It makes her sound unpleasantly manipulative… but I was glad when she broke me loose. Maybe it's not as bad as _I_ make it sound.

Fingers lightly brushed Her Lordship's elbow; not quite a restraining gesture but one that certainly recaptured her undivided attention and smoothed some of the worry crease from between her brows. "I… just a moment." He withdrew quickly, leaving Her Lordship looking curiously after him.

Then she glanced at me, indicating she'd known quite well I was there.

I shrugged. It's a small ship; I could have interrupted the moment, but I didn't.

She shrugged back at me, expression twisting with amusement. She's not shy aboard ship—although in public she keeps things with the Captain mostly professional, for his safety I'm sure—so I didn't feel bad observing when I walked in on something.

Curiosity killed the cat but, as Pierce once pointed out, the satisfaction brought him back.

I did draw away though, so the Captain wouldn't see me when he returned. I'd just make him even more uneasy; it would be unkind, not to mention stupid, to break up the moment. A broken-up moment would annoy Her Lordship quicker than anything.

There was a stream on the Organa palace grounds; to get across, one hopped across broad stones. In spring, with the snow melt, the hopping grew treacherous—but it was still a fun game, traversing the stream back and forth. Several times my playmates and I got dumped into the freezing water becaue we slipped or overbalanced. It wasn't deep enough to be dangerous, but there was always a thrill in hop-skipping across: you _might_ fall in.

And that water was always _cold_.

That was the impression I suddenly had of the Captain: like he was playing that hop-skipping game, only he had something worse to fall into than freezing water… and no laughing playmates to help fish him out.

A hot burning resentment began burning in my chest. It wasn't right. He wasn't afraid—if that's even the word—because Her Lordship is Sith. That doesn't figure in. He sees a woman out of his league; he sees the gap she ignores. He believes it, but can't seem to make himself shake away.

Someone, sometime—I don't think I'm seeing the damage inflicted by an ex—did something to… shatter… his perception of personal value. Like it's easier to think of himself as Captain Quinn, a tool for the Empire, a wrench or a hydrospanner because that's how he finds security in the world. Like it's too hard to think of himself as—what's his first name?—Malavai Quinn, the person, the man who lives and breathes, feels and wants.

Wow. She's got her work cut out for her.

And therein lies another thing: how many women would be willing to chip away at this wall of issues? I think most would give up, which does nothing for his disappearance behind rank and ability. He may not even know how to step out from behind that anymore—he's not exactly a child, so he's had time to entrench himself.

Someone should pay for that. Even by my increasingly broad standards for acceptable cruelty, it seemed someone's been _terribly_ cruel. Unacceptably.

It was weird to think of the Captain as… well. I usually see the capable, confident competence, efficiency and the razor-intelligence Her Lordship finds so intriguing. Normally, there's no reason to look deeper than that. Introspection, however, left me with the impression that he was far more… fragile… than I ever imagined he could be. But at the same time stronger than I thought, because how else could he hide the damage I was just now beginning to see?

"I… it caught my eye," he announced, words tight with self-consciousness. "I thought of you."

It sounded to me like he'd purchased something that, except for the existence of this moment, would have sat on a shelf mocking him for months or years. Something intended for her that he would maybe not have scraped together the courage to give her.

Her Lordship is open-handed, but tends to keep her gifts of a practical nature to avoid awkwardness. In fact, she downplays such things to the point that they really do look like practical necessity to facilitate the tasks required of the recipient. The recipient would really have to know her to see anything else.

If you look at the items—usually left casually on a bed or in the recipient's preferred workspace—you can see they're carefully selected. I won't call it affection—not the way most people would—but she's human enough to think of those she keeps close. For instance, after Taris we stopped by Vaiken; that evening I found a mundane-looking box with my very own yellow krayt dragon pearl for my lightsaber.

"…for me?" she sounded genuinely surprised, almost hesitant. He must have nodded in answer, for she immediately said, very softly, "Thank you." It seemed he really had surprised her. Too bad he's probably too nervous to enjoy seeing _her_ off balance.

I wanted to edge forward, but felt certain I'd be observed. Like a child peeking through a keyhole. Underneath the increasingly Sith mindsets, I'm still a sappy romantic and it's _utterly_ pathetic.

Then again, I've never seen a dynamic like the one Her Lordship and the Captain maintain. My parents were devoted to one another; I was slated for a marriage that would be amicable at best; Gesselle had that fellow Blenks who, gallant and idealistic, almost worshipped the ground she walked on; too many on Alderaan were in loveless matches, using one another for gain while hating one another every waking moment—probably through the sleeping ones, too.

This? This was all tension, a slow spiral ever shrinking as gravity did its thing. I had no reason to believe things would cool off or get stale once they collided. Planet smashing into one another do _not_ tranquil places make.

"Thank you, Quinn," Her Lordship repeated, sounding genuinely at a loss… but pleased, as if she'd never received a gift from a gentleman before. I knew this couldn't possibly be the truth. Maybe it was the first time she'd received a gift from a gentleman who _mattered_.

An awkward silence. "May I… put it on you?" I almost didn't hear the words, he said them so quietly.

"I'd like that very much."

I did peek at them at this (rightly loathing myself for being voyeuristic). The Captain had to step around her, leaving me in his blind spot, in order to fasten his present around her neck. He didn't have to move her hair out of the way—she wore it up, as she usually does aboard ship—but his fingers lingered against her skin, then smoothed along her shoulders, as if he'd stepped out of the maelstrom of discomfort and tension into a sheltered spot.

He either kissed the nape of her neck or murmured something against it; either way, Her Lordship hummed her appreciation before turning in place so she could face him. He didn't remove his hands when she did so, simply let her slip between them, fingers grazing lightly over shoulders and collar bones, catching gently against the thin silk of her tunic.

I remembered their conversation—that little part of it I heard:

' _Passion will make us stronger.'_

' _I'm growing open to the idea.'_

Of course it would be a process—two steps forward, one step back—especially given what I've noticed.

I retreated when he leaned over to kiss her, as if still unsure this whole thing they hadn't wasn't some kind of cruel joke, just as Her Lordship slipped her arms around him, drawing them together like two sides of a zipper.

If I stayed longer, I'd start to feel dirty. This was private, even if they were in the common area of the ship.

I wish them both luck.

 **The Gift**

The next time I saw Her Lordship, I also saw the trinket the Captain gave her.

Her Lordship wears the color purple often, but it's not her favorite color. It's simply that she's a redhead who found a shade she could wear and make look good; she's showing off. Purple is notoriously not fond of redheads. In reality, she likes blues and greens, deep jewel tones.

What the Captain found for her was a small enameled pendant in the shape of a curling peacock's plume, rendered in her favorite blue-green, in a copper-toned setting that brought out the color marvelously. I could see why he might have been nervous at the idea of giving it to her. The value is all sentimental—it wasn't exactly tourist crap, but it was hardly a unique item or an expensive one.

In the Captain's case, given his character, the sentimental nature put it beyond price—he's not one to show his sentimental side much. But it was in her favorite color, had an elegance of shape… and I know she likes copper tones; it suggested real knowledge of the person to whom it had been given… even if he'd never (as far as I knew) set foot in her suite at the Balanchine-Renault estate.

You could tell by the way she wore it that Her Lordship weighed the thing by its sentimental value, not that of the market. She wore it as if it held value comparable to that of the necklace of opals and diamonds on display on Her Lordship's family home, or any of the jewels Magdalena ever wore.

I hoped the Captain got a little thrill every time he saw it on her. He deserves it.

Ugh. Is there _anything_ worse than a Sith who is also a closet sappy romantic? Maybe it's just showing because it's not me actually involved. It's easier to be sappy about other people's business.

 **On Hurry Up and Wait**

Here's a thing people never tell you about war and Sith intrigues: there is _a lot_ of hurry up and wait. The guy in charge never has stuff neatly lined up for you. You sit there in your space ship playing games or making work for yourself while you wait. It's enough to make your face break out.

Of course the Captain and Her Lordship didn't have problems.

In fact, Pierce and the Captain actually put aside their differences (mostly) because Pierce turned out to be a competent Gambit player and with four players (myself included) the game could get pretty intense. It was clear that Pierce had a brain to go with all those muscles.

I trained, since the training droids could use blasters I worked on my ability to place a deflected bolt exactly where I wanted it. Combat practice is a staple of Her Lordship's training regimen and I'd begun developing a taste for it. So that was what we did quite often. She didn't conceal her approval for this willingness to excel. Doubtless, with a master like her, I'll do so more quickly than with others. After all, she believes in combat prowess first and anything else second.

Whenever possible, I took to prowling around the ship, virtually invisible. Her Lordship picked up on the why and would make a discrete hand signal when she sensed me lurking. It wasn't hard to pull the wool over the eyes of the non-Sensitives… though the Captain would occasionally look around as if he heard something, then shrug it off as his own imagination.

It was also during this period of inaction that I resolved, if the chance ever came up, to try the Demon's Blood ritual again, to see how it would play out. Last time, the Reflection nearly drowned me to make a point. I think I'd fare better this time.

 **On the Sith Joke Scale**

The Captain disliked Nar Shaddaa, while Her Lordship found it intriguing as a novelty. Thus, she took Vette with her out onto the moon while leaving the Captain here. I didn't want to seem too eager to make a trip to check on Her Lordship's best minion on Nar Shaddaa, so I stayed, too.

The Captain arrived to answer the knock at the bulkhead before I could. The airlock hissed open to reveal a scantily clad Twi'lek—blue with… Vette's eyes…—standing nervously in the doorway. She was pretty, prettier than Vette and with a better figure, but her aura was tired, worn down, threadbare. Someone who'd had a hard time of it.

The Captain's aura, however, spiked enough to show that he was _far_ too spoiled to a certain red-headed standard… and perplexed. "Who are you and what do you want?" the Captain asked, recovering his poise.

The Twi'lek eyes the Captain uneasily. "I… was sent to Captain Quinn… Her Lordship says I'm 'a reward for a job well done.'" She even sounded a little like Vette.

Both the Captain and I made faces over this, remembering Her Lordship's almost violent antipathy for trading in the flesh of others. It was one thing to own a slave. It was quite another to be asked to actually involve herself in the trade.

But I caught on before the Captain did, having been with Her Lordship during a certain conversation.

"Relax, Captain," I purred as his confusion and distaste reached a peak. "Not for _you_ —for Vette. For her service on Taris, remember? She wanted to reward Vette for a job well done—finding her sister seems, to me, an excellent way of doing so."

The Captain blinked, then his expression unclouded with a relief that didn't show in his aura.

"Her Lordship simply couldn't guarantee I would be here to handle things. Tuvi," I waited until the droid clanked up.

I couldn't be certain, but I thought I heard him grumble wearily along the lines of 'more like she enjoys seeing me _discomposed_.'

Well… he's not wrong there. But he gets her back from time to time, after all. Not a lot of people can say that.

"Yes, Mistress Jaesa?" Tuvi asked enthusiastically.

"My dressing gown, please. You must be Vette's sister, are you not?" I asked when the Captain moved to allow the woman to come aboard.

"Yes, my lord," the Twi'lek—why can't remember her name? Did I ever hear it?—said, looking somewhat stunned and wary because of it.

"I see."

Tuvi arrived with my dressing gown, which I took and handed to the Twi'lek. "Vette will be glad to see you once Her Lordship allows her to return to the ship." Which she'll probably do with arms full of purchases Her Lordship really doesn't need to make, to maintain the fiction that Her Lordship is far from charitable and far from fond of her Twi'lek 'slave.'

Anyone watching will simply see a pretty toy for Her Lordship's favorite officer since there is absolutely nothing—could _never_ be _anything_ —serious going on between _them_. That's the fiction the world needs to believe. Her crew knows better.

I think most of us would prefer they hurry up and get to the good stuff. Maybe their tension will be less… discomforting… to those of us without a partner.

"You look tired," I said simply, turning on my heel and expecting her to follow.

Pierce, finally resorting to sleep to abolish boredom as well as to get used to the shift between Tarisian time and shipboard time, was sprawling on his bunk, looking ready to start snoring. It wasn't a pretty sight.

"Pierce."

"Uh?" he open one blearily eye. He wasn't really awake, but he was awake enough. "Th' Twil'ek grow up when I wasn't lookin'?" he slurred.

"Her Lordship will have parts off you over this Twi'lek. Be wise."

"Some fine opinion some people have of me, huh?" Pierce muttered before rolling onto one side, presenting his back to the room. Part of me wondered if he'd even really been awake during this semi-conversation.

I don't entertain a questionable opinion of him, but I'd rather be safe than sorry… and partly for Pierce's sake. It was funny to see the Captain discomposed by the woman's arrival; it wouldn't be as funny for Pierce to wake up with a strange woman in the costume of a stripper (I say it charitably) sitting in the dormitory. It would be awkward, at the very least.

"Don't worry about him," I said to Vette's sister, wondering if Pierce had really dropped off to sleep again that fast. "This is Vette's bunk… it'll give you a bit of privacy. Privacy is best for thinking."

 **On True Reunions**

Vette arrived with Her Lordship in a foul temper which she seemed to have difficulty holding in. I worried for the girl: too much more attitude and Her Lordship would be forced to bring her to heel… if she hadn't already.

Her Lordship, naturally, was perfectly impervious to this display. "Quinn?"

"My lord?" the Captain appeared from the bridge.

"Where is Tivva?"

"Jaesa placed her in the dormitory," the Captain answered.

"I thought privacy and quiet would be good for her," I answered. "Shall I fetch her now?"

"Do so."

I did wonder what had Vette so upset. Perhaps it was simply forgetting the fictions necessary for Her Lordship to navigate social interactions safely. Probably Vette forgot herself, in the joy of finding her sister alive, and believed all sorts of unkind and unpleasant things about Her Lordship. But, really, what use would either Her Lordship or the Captain have for a pleasure slave? Her Lordship wants the Captain and isn't interested in women; the Captain wants Her Lordship and is probably fairly Imperial when it comes to aliens.

Part of me thinks that even if he wasn't, the fact that Tivva is Vette's sister would squelch any interest.

"Tivva?" I called quietly. "Tivva."

She woke with a start, tensing up. "…My lord?"

"Her Lordship wishes to see you."

Tivva got up and followed me uneasily to where Her Lordship stood talking to the Captain in a low voice. From their expressions, it was about business. She stopped when Tivva and I arrived.

"Your sister, Vette," Her Lordship said simply, indicating Tivva. "In return for your excellent work on Taris."

Vette's brow crinkled.

Her Lordship sighed, but her voice had an irritable, impatient edge when she spoke again. "I shall have the paperwork by the end of the day." With that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the room—probably to handle the paperwork that would render Tivva a free woman.

The Captain didn't stay long, either. This was, after all, a family thing and none of his business—he would say as much himself in more or less the same words.

Vette gave a nervous laugh, watching Her Lordship go. "She-she's a funny kind of Sith, isn't she?"

"I'll bet you were thinking all sorts of horrible things about her," I answered dryly. "Surely you remember that she can't seem overly fond of you—or anyone—in public. Someone might try using you to get to her, if she did. Note that the emphasis is on your safety and not about potential inconveniences."

Vette turned absolutely purple.

"Purchase her contract for the Captain. I ask you." I rolled my eyes and withdrew, the winding-up of a joyful reunion ushering me along my way.

I had to admire Her Lordship's subtlety: Vette was loyal before. Now, she'd _die_ for Her Lordship. You don't need actual chains to hold someone securely. Those forged by the individual in question are so much stronger.

 **On Sith Liaisons**

Rathari looked tired. Tired and, perhaps, a little discouraged. Having been released by Her Lordship, I saw no reason why I shouldn't slip down here for a visit. It had been an exercise in moving about unseen and, although I'd been standing here a good ten minutes by the chrono, Rathari was as unaware of me as he had been when I slipped in behind some lackey delivering a report.

By degrees, I shed my self-shielding measures. I wouldn't want to startle him, although it might be amusing… assuming he didn't lash out with his lightsaber or the Force as a first reaction. It would be a reasonable one for a Sith, especially a Sith in his position.

Finally, he looked up. "When did you get in?" he asked gruffly.

"A few minutes ago," I lied.

"To take a report or deliver orders?" he asked, stuffing the weariness I'd sensed somewhere out of sight. He straightened to his full height and frowned down at me.

"Neither. She's given me a little liberty. I thought I'd come say hello."

"Did you, indeed?" he asked, frowning pointed back to his desk as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"I did." With this, I prowled over to frown at his desk, the contents upside down as they were.

Rathari returned to leaning heavily on the desk.

I leaned on it too, imitating his posture.

He stopped leaning on one of his arms so he could use that hand to cover a datapad's contents.

I stopped leaning on one arm and tried to tease the datapad out from under his hand.

"I'm trying to _work_ ," he declared flatly.

I bent my gift on him, sensed the bone-deep weariness, the frustration with so little news of rifting between Her Lordship and Baras, the eternal, painful, throbbing hatred for Baras himself, some wry amusement at my antics… and some pleasure in seeing me again. More than just 'some,' as I was quite a pleasant distraction from his own morose thoughts and concerns.

"You've been trying to work for the past twenty minutes with very little success," I answered softly, smirking when his head shot up. "It doesn't look like you're having much luck."

"I _thought_ there was something distracting in the room," he answered in an attempt at peevishly.

"Well, now you _know_ there is," I responded, finally succeeding in working my fingers under his hand and worrying the datapad out. "Take a break." I debated for a moment, then added, "A secret, for a moment of your time?"

"A moment only," came the answer, after a few minutes of critical thought.

I came around his desk, then levered myself onto it, leaning over so I could whisper in his ear, lips brushing the shell of it. He stiffened, but otherwise remained still. "Baras is cleaning house."

His aura shuddered, became tingly with the hope that this meant what he thought it meant: that Baras would soon need to silence his enforcer at which point Her Lordship would turn around to bite his head off. "Are you sure?" he asked, pointedly not looking at me… or maybe looking at parts of me near his own eye level. I found I didn't particularly mind.

"Positive." Her Lordship wouldn't object to my tossing this detail out—when I bent my gift on him again I found nothing to give me unease. In Rathari's mind, everything ended with the death of Darth Baras.

Mingled with this practical information was the fact that my flirtations—and I wasn't being at all subtle—weren't lost on him any more than they weren't welcome. Which is to say he was very aware of what kind of distraction I had in mind and was not particularly opposed. A little leery, since I am my master's apprentice, but that's a healthy concern.

"Your moment's up," Rathari said softly, a hint of teasing in his tone which was no longer quite so taciturn.

"I see. Well, I'll leave you to your so-important all-consuming work. I'm certain Her Lordship will approve of your dedication." I slipped off the desk and started for the door, only to be stopped when Rathari came around the desk to catch me by the shoulders. I couldn't turn to face him, but he stepped up close to me.

I felt a shiver run through me, a combination of awareness of his bulk looming behind me and the delicate circles his thumbs began to trace on my shoulders. "Maybe you ought to stay."

"Why?" My gulp wasn't audible as the realization hit me full force that this is no longer a hypothetical thing, but something in the immediate now.

"To take a report, of course."

"Report? Of what?" My skin began to tingle with apprehension, and again as I tried to tuck said apprehension out of sight.

"My efforts on our lord's behalf, naturally."

"It seems to me you've already given it: you're a very busy man." It _will_ be an interesting experience…

"Our master would _never_ accept an answer that. Better you edit a few things out than try to edit a few things in."

I chuckled at this, then stepped back into his bulk, tilting my head when he kissed my neck. "There's one more thing before we get started."

"Just the one?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And what might that be?"

"Don't be clever—should you intend to move against my master, when all this is over, I shall know. And I shall _dismember_ you." The tone did not suit the words.

Rathari's chuckle rumbled in his chest, sending gooseflesh along my arms—which he didn't miss, as he'd slid his hands down to rest above my elbows. "It was not against you master I intend to move," he retorted smoothly, lips brushing against my jaw.

Oh. Nice comeback.


	33. Chapter 33

**Hoth, Part I**

Darth Baras' communiqué was brief to the point that his famed self-discipline and calm seemed to be fraying: go to Hoth, find Jedi Knight Xerender, derail his plans, kill him. It sounded to me as though Baras was getting antsy over something.

Interesting.

I vaguely remembered Xerender's name, which the Captain identified as being the name of the Jedi mentioned by the Chiss traitor Her Lordship packed off to Baras for questioning. The man never forgets _anything_ , I swear _._ It's remarkable.

For a moment I wondered why it took so long to get an approximate location on Xerender… then I realized that searching a whole planet couldn't be a quick exercise especially if his motives were unknown beyond 'if it's him involved, it's bad for us.'

More than that, everyone knows Hoth is the galaxy's icebox. It probably does horrible things to equipment, making tracking someone harder than it would be somewhere more moderate.

First Taris, now Hoth—I'm with Vette: why don't we ever go anywhere nice?

"Back in the day I narrowly escaped assignment to this frigid planet," the Captain grimaced. "It chills my bones just being in orbit around it."

I nearly joked about there being _benefits_ to a cold environment he clearly wasn't considering. I thought Her Lordship might have been toying with a similar remark, given the catlike smile curving her mouth.

"Yeah… I think I'm coming down with a cold." Vette said, her voice hoarse before she gave and affected, experimental-sounding cough… then another one when the first sounded a bit too fake.

My grimace was matched by Pierce's, though his dislike remained focused on the Captain (whom I'd already heard Pierce call 'that starched pansy'). Ugh. I've seen bull nerfs act like that.

"Forget these _cowards_ m'lord," Pierce grated out. The Captain's eyes actually flashed steely at the word as his attention snapped to Pierce. Oooh… there's a nerve. And if looks could kill, Pierce would be dead with some kind of rusty dull knife in his heart. " _I'm_ prepped whenever you're ready. Just give the word."

Her Lordship's cool attention shifted between the two men as if feeling at them both. She probably was; regardless, she won't interfere in their private antagonism until it causes her inconvenience. I believe they're both professional enough (and smart enough) not to let it get that far.

There was only one thing to do: break up the moment. "I share Pierce's enthusiasm, my lord. I want to seek out and explore every experience in the galaxy. It will be a fine contrast to Tatooine." Not necessarily an enjoyable one, but certainly a decent one.

"If I never have to go back there it will be too soon," Her Lordship grimaced. "Very well, Pierce. It's probably best to have a military liaison. Vette, Quinn, remain here."

However much the Captain didn't like being around Hoth, he didn't like this proposition, either. He kept it out of his voice when he spoke up next. "There should be a liaison officer on the station before you shuttle down. Undoubtedly they will have or will prepare cold-weather equipment for you. Hoth is a specialized environment. Even a Sith lord might prefer not to deal with the planet's hostility as well as that of threats on it."

Such a delicate way of saying 'even you can't handle the climate on your own.'

"And the shuttle system will be able to get you wherever I require you to be?" Her Lordship asked. "Should I require you?"

"They should, barring inclement weather."

"Excellent. Consider yourself on call. I know Lanklyn—I don't doubt I'll be needing an interim officer before long, so take advantage of clear lines of communication and the intervening time to familiarize yourself with… whatever you would need to in order to step up and advise whatever individual finds himself abruptly promoted." Her Lordship's expression crinkled at not having a more concrete way to phrase things.

Some of the Captain's upset faded at this nonchalant presentation of her reasoning (while Pierce seemed to find said lost upset). The Tarisian garrison expected us; the Moff was easy to maneuver. We didn't have that knowledge this time. It made sense to give the Captain time to learn the power structure and various local conditions without concern of weather interfering with the flow of information.

There was also no reason to make him do it while freezing his ass off. Her Lordship has a special place in her appreciations for that.

 **Hoth, Part II**

The first hint that the Captain couldn't overstate the necessity of not trying to be tough when it came to the weather was the fact that even _Sith_ had to go through the Adamas Orbital Station. It was a large station but only because of the hangar space it possessed. See, Hoth was so hard on equipment that it was safer—and more space-effective—for specialized shuttles to run personnel back and forth between the surface rather than letting ships go down. The station provided safekeeping for the vessels that brought people to that frozen world.

Rumor was that the Republic had a similar station elsewhere… and I wondered why the Imperial Armed Forces hadn't blasted it out of orbit. It didn't matter, I suppose, since they hadn't even attempted to blast _us_ out of the sky. Maybe the station commanders were content to live and let live. No sense getting everyone killed over Hoth—or worse, _stranded_ on the planet in an emergency situation.

I shuddered at the very thought.

We weren't out of our hangar before an ensign approached in such a hurry he was almost too slow to avoid colliding with Her Lordship. Apparently someone had been made aware that she was not someone to be kept waiting.

"My lords, Lieutenant," the ensign snapped a salute. "I'm Ensign Rayel. I've been told this visit is because you'll be shuttling down to the planet's surface?"

"Is there some problem here?" Her Lordship asked in what I recognized as a neutral fashion but which made the ensign nervous.

"No, no, not at all, my lord. In fact, the shuttle is already waiting for you. The pilot is just performing preflight checks. I'm merely assigned to assist you, however I may."

"I'd get round to the point, Ensign. Her Lordship here doesn't like to idle," Pierce prompted.

"With your permission, my lords, I'll need to scan you—measurements so proper cold-weather gear can be assembled. Hoth is intensely hostile to non-native species… except the Chiss. More than that, though, Sith of your stature shouldn't have to extend themselves to deal with—"

"The practicality is understood, ensign. We were briefed before setting foot on this station. Proceed," Her Lordship declared.

Rayel relaxed marginally, produced a scanner and ran it up and down Her Lordship, me, then Pierce. "I'll have your equipment assembled immediately, my lords, Lieutenant." He gave a shallow bob that almost looked like a cringe. He clearly didn't know how to deal with Sith… or recently met one of the usual variety and wasn't eager to repeat portions of the experience if he could avoid it. "Would you like to remain here with your ship, or should I conduct you to the mess? It's not very grand, but the caf is quite good."

"The mess," Her Lordship answered. "I wish to be underway as soon as possible."

The Ensign bowed deeply, then hurried off to conduct us to the mess.

It _was_ a humble little place, but as the ensign promised the caf was good. So much so that Pierce seemed genuinely surprised. I bet it has to do with compensation for such a crap assignment as monitoring traffic down to Hoth. I get the impression great soldiers don't end up down there, while it's just unlucky ones that end up on this station.

It took about ten minutes for the ensign to come back, his arms so full of white cold-weather clothes that if one little thing overbalanced he'd drop the whole load. "We've space for changing near the hangars," the ensign declared. "The better to get you on your way as efficiently as possible."

"Excellent." Her Lordship caught Pierce's eye.

The big soldier took it as a hint to relieve Rayel of his precariously perched burden.

Once changed, I almost, _almost_ said I wouldn't wear the stupid things. I could deal with the white that would camouflage me on Hoth's wintery surface. I could deal with the heaviness of the boots, which would take some effort to compensate for. What I couldn't deal with was the thickness of the material and the fact that my robes wouldn't go on over it. There just wasn't enough room in the fastenings to allow for that much added mass.

Fortunately, when I shoved out of the room, the half-robe in one hand, boots in the other, I found Her Lordship in a similar condition. That is, she also carried those of her robes that wouldn't go on over her thermal suit in one hand and her normal boots in the other. "You will return these to my ship," was all she said as she handed the garments over to Rayel. She adjusted the white standard-issue belt, then hung her lightsabers off it.

In a flash she had them out, but fumbled on the draw. Scowling, she put them back and tried again. Then she shifted and flexed. "On balance, you will conduct us back to our hangar."

I could see why: time to adapt to the new clothes so she wouldn't still be getting used to them while in the field. I'd never seen her have trouble getting her lightsabers off her belt before.

As I walked, aware of how thick the thermal suit was, how heavy and inflexible the boots were compared to what I normally wear, I agreed with her. This gear was so far removed from the norm that it could get a woman killed. Not a pleasant thought.

 **Hoth, Part III**

The base was sparsely populated compared to the Toxic Lake Garrison and contained a great many Chiss. They stood out less because of their blue skin and more because the Imperials wore thicker, more cold-resistant versions of their uniforms while the Chiss seemed dressed for standard conditions.

I thought I might have spotted a couple indulgent smiles here and there, as if the Chiss found this repugnance to the cold while indoors amusing.

At least _someone_ did. Even indoors it was drafty and chilly—like wear your thermal suit to bed chilly.

The one good thing I could say was that the base was better situated than the Toxic Lake Garrison, being partly subterraneous for insulation purposes. In this environment, the heavy duracrete construction common to Imperial works was comforting. Snow can be heavy; a lot of snow can cave in a building easily; an Imperial-build facility looks like it can stand up under snow… even a lot of it.

"My lord, if I may?" I frowned as Her Lordship and I waited while Pierce set about obtaining Lanklyn's whereabouts.

"Of course."

"Why is Pierce man-hunting? Surely you could do so more efficiently."

"Yes, but Pierce isn't just looking for Lanklyn. He's also looking for an old comrade of his," she answered. "With the war reignited, Pierce's group is an asset again. We'll discuss it later, in private."

I inclined my head, chewing this over. From what she said, I supposed that General Rakton had contacted either Pierce or her (probably Pierce so as not to seem presumptuous with a Sith of unknown temperament) to reactivate Pierce's old Black Ops squad. I'd heard more about them since he joined the crew and was quite curious to see what would be done with them.

None of this surprised me—we'd taken Pierce on partly because of his Black Ops connections—it just came unexpectedly.

"Got some good news and some bad news, m'lord," Pierce announced after having questioned and cross questioned several Imperials (probably before threatening someone with one pissed-off Sith if they didn't get their cannoks in a row—his favorite expression.) "Found Tanido, he's here. Lanklyn's supposed to be but isn't. Little ensign name of Slinte's supposed to be managing things in his absence. This way."

Ensigns seem to have the short end of the stick with startling regularity. They get changed out like goldfish, the poor boys.

Pierce led us through the base to a node containing several Imperials and one _very_ nervous ensign. He looked ready to keel over as Her Lordship swept into the room, Pierce standing aside to let her (then me) go in first.

Slinte was young, eighteen or nineteen at most, with brown hair receding from his forehead, and an almost diamond-shaped face. Despite his agitation, he managed to speak clearly, without stammering when he addressed Her Lordship. "My lord," he bowed. "I am Ensign Slinte, Commander Lanklyn's second-in-command."

Either the lad is very talented or Lanklyn is twice the fool he's been painted as.

"And where _is_ Commander Lanklyn?" Her Lordship asked calmly. I'd say 'coolly' but this being Hoth… well. One should be careful what words one uses. There's a point when such jokes aren't funny.

Slinte swallowed. "He's out in the field, my lord, tracking Jedi Xerender. You've arrived sooner than expected."

"Get him on the holo."

Slinte shifted his footing as if preparing to run or duck. When he spoke, his tone was uneasy and placating. "…I would, my lord, and will certainly try if you require it… but you should know that he's, uh, he's ceased reporting in. His tracker beacon hasn't moved for some time. He's either been detained… or he's dead."

"Hail him."

The lack of animosity seemed to encourage Slinte, who hurried over to the comm terminal and proceeded to put out a call to Lanklyn.

No response.

"Very well," Her Lordship sighed, grim resignation turning her mouth into a thin, puckered line. "Assuming he wasn't simply careless, what is most likely to detain him?"

"Apart from the weather, there's a sizeable Republic presence, all manner of power-hungry pirates, and almost any of the indigenous life will take a bite out of the unwary," Slinte answered promptly.

"Very well. I take it there's a reason a rescue party hasn't been sent?"

The ensign shifted from foot to foot uneasily. His unease was starting to annoy me. I don't know how Her Lordship tolerated it. "Our forces are stretched thin, but I began assembling a party when I got word you'd arrived. It may take several days…"

"Release your men back to their proper duties, Ensign, and patch me through to my ship. Then, you will make arrangements with whomever so that my Captain's arrival will not be delayed any more than necessary."

Slinte bowed, fiddled with the comms, then struck off briskly to obey Her Lordship's string of commands. He certainly seemed happier to have someone or something to obey than he had been when being the voice of authority.

" _My lord?_ " The Captain seemed braced for bad news.

"Lanklyn has surpassed my expectations in a negative direction, Captain. I'm afraid you must leave the ship in Vette's hands and join us on the surface."

She must not have a lot of faith in Lanklyn's survival. She probably meant to use the Captain as an anti-friction agent between her and whatever subordinate—if he's really second-in-command, probably Slinte—Baras replaces Lanklyn with.

" _Of course, my lord._ "

"Your clearances are being handled as we speak. Your contact is Ensign Slinte. You'll be acting as my liaison."

She seems pretty sure she won't be dealing with Lanklyn very long, one way or the other. I've heard her call him a fool more than once and she never has anything but mild disdain for the man, but I don't really know why.

" _I shall disembark immediately._ "

"I'll see you shortly, Quinn." Her Lordship hung up, then leaned on the holoterminal's base. "Damn it, Lanklyn," she growled under her breath, pushing off the holoterminal the better to glare at it.

"This commander seems rather... ineffective… for Darth Baras' purposes," I declared blandly, catching a look from Pierce that seemed to be grateful he wasn't the only one wondering about this. If Pierce had an opinion about Baras, he'd wisely kept it to himself.

"He's a fool. Sometimes one requires a fool," she answered acidly. "I had hoped he simply looked incompetent because of the company he was in, but apparently I was wrong."

"There's a story there," Pierce noted dryly.

"Everything's clear, my lord. Everything but the weather. We're expecting a large storm. I think we can get your man here before it hits, but if I may advance a professional assessment, I wouldn't try to brave it if I were you," Slinte rattled off as he returned. "Better to wait until it passes. You'll lose time, but better that than the alternatives."

And I imagine it would look bad if he lost an important Sith's apprentice, even if it was to the apprentice's stupidity. Fortunately, Her Lordship doesn't need to prove herself by taking dumb risks.

"I seem to be spending entirely too much time in garrison cantinas and mess halls," Her Lordship sighed. "Direct me to the nearest one, but apprise me when the storm has passed. When my man arrives, send him along."

Her Lordship remained silent until we were all three ensconced in the mess (the caf, incidentally, wasn't _nearly_ as good as the stuff on the orbital station—more like caf-flavored hot water). "In response to Pierce's remark, there _is_ a story to do with Lanklyn. It appears I have time to share it, if you're truly interested."

" _I_ am," I piped up immediately, wrapping my fingers around my caf mug. If it wasn't great for drinking, at least it helped warm my cold fingers.

Pierce shrugged his massive shoulders, crossed his arms over his chest before tipping his chair back onto two legs.

 **Dromund Kaas: A Bevy of Fools**

For the duration of Hella's anecdote it is up to the reader how much of this information is conveyed to Jaesa and Pierce, and how much is kept within the confines of Hella's own mind. Readers get the unfiltered version. ^_^

-J-

It was unusually _wet_ , even for Dromund Kaas. The short walk between the rapid transit waypoint and the hangar to which I'd been directed left me absolutely saturated. For a brief moment I envied Vette: no hair to get soaked, which would dry in frizzy disarray later.

But only for a brief moment. There was too much more not to envy.

The warm dryness of the spaceport hit like a wall, the heated blast beginning to evaporate the water dripping off me. That's a detraction of robes: they hold more water than most garments. Ugh.

Vette bobbed alongside me, humming tunelessly under her breath, violet eyes darting about on the lookout for trouble.

Darth Baras had me running errands. It wasn't the sort of work I wanted—who wants to be a glorified errand girl?—but everyone has to start somewhere. His references to Commander Lanklyn didn't leave me feeling encouraged. Most members of the Imperial Armed Forces I've met are competent and loyal to the Empire. _Un_ fortunately, there are enough members on the extreme end to give a bad impression: the incompetent, the self-serving, the ridiculous with powerful backers. I've never met one, but one hears about them often enough.

Uncle Tim might be careful _how_ he said things but it was hard to miss his points. He hated, _hates_ , Sith meddling. Usually it compromises things beyond their limited viewpoint—because even Sith have limits—to the detriment of all.

It seemed to me that Lanklyn was one of these ridiculous men with powerful patrons. This struck me as odd, since Baras gave me the impression of liking _successes_ and wouldn't tolerate people, particularly idiots, who couldn't deliver.

Then again, any good practitioner of Baras' school of manipulation knows that sometimes sacrifices are inevitable. Better to put someone like Lanklyn on the block than someone actually useful.

The Commander and his bevy of aides had already offloaded the carbonite block, swarming around it like so many busy bees. I had to wonder what was in the poor fool's head that was so vitally important. Whatever it was, it was about to be more trouble than it was worth.

Not that confessing it, whatever it was, would save him.

"Alright men," Commander Lanklyn (so I presumed) declared, slapping the levitation fields in order to push the block more easily. "Let's get this overblown hunk of ice to its master.

I crossed my arms, studying the man's back. No one was facing the door which suggested overconfidence, laxity, or just stupidity. Never sit with one's back to a door; it's too easy for some stealthy assassin to sneak up on you. For Sith that's just basic common sense.

I glanced at Vette, who grinned wickedly. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. The sound made the Imperials jump (but no one went for a weapon). "Hey, Capt. Oblivious— _boo_!"

The Commander opened his mouth indignantly but then caught sight of me. "Ah… my lord…" he responded uneasily. "I didn't see you enter."

Because your back was to the door and you didn't leave a lookout, idiot.

"Darth Baras has sent me to oversee conveyance of this prisoner," I declared, striding into the room. Because, of course, I could very easily be the emissary of some _other_ lord. I'm of Darth Baras' opinion: you can never be too careful, _especially_ with sensitive cargo.

The Commander frowned, bowing politely to help hide the frown. "All due respect, my lord, Darth Baras didn't need to send a welcoming party."

"Clearly he feels otherwise." The agent's face was rendered somewhat shapeless by the carbonite, the thick material obliterating signs of age and all but the most general features. He certainly hadn't gone in there willingly, but who would?

Lanklyn, whom I watched out of the corner of my eyes, frowned again, more as though put out than offended. "My men and I have handled much more dangerous undertakings in Lord Baras' service," he pointed out. "The prisoner is frozen in carbonite, hardly a flight risk, and this is friendly territory. Surely we're safe here."

It must be nice to live in a world where such a thing is believable. "Sith interests are complicated, Commander," was all I said, but it sent a shiver of unease through Lanklyn's men and, indeed, through Lanklyn himself.

"Yes, my lord, whatever you say," Lanklyn hurried on. "Men, let's not waste Her Lordship's time—let's get this hunk of ice to—"

I held up a hand, turning on the spot to watch the door fully, rather than out of my peripheral vision.

A skinny mercenary (so identified by the array of equipment clinging to his person) swaggered into the hangar, flanked by some six or eight men. The way he carried himself suggested overconfidence. Not unlike Lanklyn.

"Uh-oh," Vette mumbled in that singsong way of hers. "I think war's about to be declared."

"Not so fast," the mercenary declared, even as I unclipped the lightsabers from my belt. He must think he's been trained to withstand Sith. I find that ilk a major annoyance. It's as if they think all Sith are alike when, in reality, nothing could be further from the truth. They will always, _always_ be susceptible to any Sith involved in their training lest they get clever and try turning on that Sith. You never know when a rival might try corrupting your… hn, 'student' is too strong a word. Lackey, then. " _My_ master ordered that block of ice, so step away from the carbonite man and no one ends up in a grave."

Cocky. He kept his attention on me, it's true, but now he was just being stupid. Sith can be funny about threats.

We're even more funny about someone pointing a weapon at us. I hadn't even adjusted my footing to lunge forward and take his arm off at the shoulder (before taking his head as well) when more movement caught my eye.

One of the largest Houks I'd ever seen in my life—admittedly, a limited pool—stomped in. It seemed to me as though the very ground ought to shake under his massive weight. I sighed, the slow exhale steadying a growing annoyance.

So much for secrecy. I couldn't tell if it was the prisoner who was important or if someone was trying to spite Baras. One is as likely as the other. All I knew was things were too coordinated to be coincidence.

"Lookee, lookee," the Houk laughed. "If it ain't Slestack." The words were as thick as his neck, as though he found speaking intelligibly difficult.

'Slestak,' the first intruder, lowered his weapon and, although keeping me in his peripheral vision, glanced at the Houk.

I was wrong. This isn't an _attack_. This is a _token offensive_.

And I do find both these fools and their unwashed comrades _highly_ offensive.

A deep exhale helped me dampen down the distress and unease from the Imperials at my back… as well as the overweening pride emanating from the Houk. It sheeted off him like body odor off a rancor.

"Your master be wanting the froze man too?"

How does this Houk remember to breathe without prompting? And what kind of idiot sends 'help' like this even for a token attempt? Unless this is a series of executions. That does seem to be a real possibility. Why waste one's own effort and resources to take out such rubbish?

"Too bad!" the Houk almost roared in delight. "It mine!"

By now, the Imperials seemed… more perplexed than anything else. I didn't blame them. This is ridiculous. However, the Houk brought a good six or eight men of his own and even a Sith might take pause to consider tactics when faced by fourteen to sixteen enemies—not that one would ever admit to it.

"Old friends?" I asked snidely.

Slestack glared at me, and the Houk also redirected his simple mind to study the biggest threat in the room. If these men had an ounce of sense, they'd pool resources, try to kill me, then worry about the Imperial soldiers and one another.

"To know TuMarr is to hate TuMarr," Slestack declared idly.

His nonchalant dismissal aggravated the simple-minded Houk, who pointed a thick finger at Slestack, suddenly quite oblivious to me. "That goes double for you, Slestack," TuMarr snapped. "If you don't run, it be like killing two stones with one bird."

By the Emperor, I don't believe I'm hearing this. Still… it could be useful.

Even as Slestack and his antagonist goaded one another, their men began to form battle lines. Behind me, the Imperials did the same. Let's hope we didn't have a fourth interested party or there will be no room in this hangar for anyone to maneuver!

To my left, Vette squared off, blasters in hand. "Bunch of idiots huh, m'lord?" she asked dryly.

"At best."

"I'll never doubt Lord Baras again," Lanklyn muttered to himself from just behind my shoulder. "What do we do?"

"Don't panic," I muttered, holding up a hand for silence. The exchange went unnoticed by Slestack and TuMarr—increasingly focused on their private grudge and not on the business at hand.

 _This_ is why, if one needs an armed intervention and doesn't have Sith personnel, one hires Mandalorians. They may charge exorbitant prices but you get what you pay for. Sometimes their armor really can take lightsaber strikes, and _they_ ,at least, can claim a degree of immunity to or an edge over mind tricks. It's an innate part of their training—or so I've heard—but also resultant of being something like Jedi hunters. They like a challenge, Mandalorians; they'll even take on Sith, provided another Sith holds the purse strings. I've had little to do with them, but _Dahdee_ has required their services from time to time.

But no one in this situation had the sense to employ the Empire's mercenaries. It was apparent that simple words were far below the tactics I could employ.

I clipped one lightsaber on my belt.

When one uses a Force trick to compel action, one must take into consideration the party being manipulated. The simple minded are weakest, as—most often—are the non-Sensitives who think themselves so far beyond such a trick's reach. Overconfidence often leaves the mind open to outside influences.

TuMarr was an idiot, didn't need persuasion to become fully distracted from his task. Already he was chomping at the bit to handle his personal grudge first and his objective second.

Slestack was the problem. I didn't think he would pursue his grudge as single-mindedly.

Unfortunately for him, he was distracted and I am Sith.

"—about to chew off more than it can bite!" TuMarr snarled, pawing his blaster.

I twiddled my fingers, tugging at the Force before gripping at it firmly.

It's convention among Jedi and Sith alike to make use of the hands, or a hand, in a manipulation like this. It's not for show, it's a focusing action. Manipulating minds is delicate work; the unready, the poorly-trained, can damage the victim if not careful. A truly experienced Sith, like those on the Dark Council, probably don't need such focusing actions, but caution is better than bad consequences.

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, as Uncle Tim says.

" _ **Are you going to take that, Slestack**_ **?** "

He didn't blink, didn't show any sign of the trick. The simple fact that he was being nudged in a direction to which he was predisposed meant less evidence of outside influence. Now, getting someone to go against their grain? _That_ would have visible effects.

Slestack sighed. "Very funny," he said, giving me a patronizing look. "I do relish the opportunity of ridding the galaxy of TuMarr and his goons. So wait right there, instigator, while I finish with him." He waved me to stand by, in spite of the confusion by now sheeting off the Imperials.

To their credit, they didn't give away the game.

Slestack's men echoed the confusion, exchanging looks with one another, but didn't give ground.

With my empty hand, I waved the Imperials supporting me to move further back before cautiously, unobtrusively, inching back myself. Best to give these fools plenty of room once the shooting starts.

"Alright boys!" TuMarr roared, drawing his blaster. "We smash the talk from Slestack's big mouth now!"

Chaos broke out.

"Be ready to move on my command," I declared, flicking a lightsaber to send a stray bolt crashing into the chest of one of the outlying men.

The Imperial Armed Forces are well-trained; the soldiers moved into position, ready to act at my slightest indication. A quick glance back showed they'd taken as defensive a position as they could, blasters out, but as long as I remained in front of them the weapons remained idle.

The fight between Slestack and TuMarr (and their lackeys) eventually moved away from the door. "Now. Go." I motioned, moving to stay between them and the fight, deflecting another bolt which hit another of the lackeys in the back, sending him flying into a Rodian with something undoubtedly unpleasant in his hand. From his posture of being ready to throw, probably some sort of explosive.

Crazy, suicidal Rodians. And I think their antennae are ridiculous.

We reached the door with only two or three combatants left fighting. Slestack lay dead on the floor; TuMarr seemed to be wounded as he bellowed at his own man between bouts of gloating over his victory.

"Vette, watch them. Lanklyn, wait for me." It took only a moment to case the situation before I leapt in, lightsabers glowing, humming gently in my hands.

 **Hoth, Part IV**

"And that was it, really," Her Lordship concluded disgustedly. "Rather than lining their men up against a wall and getting it over with, they were simply fed to me because those men's masters _had_ to know Baras wouldn't leave such a valuable piece of intelligence lying around to be scooped up by the first enterprising individual to catch the scent of something important. Now, how anyone knew about that transfer is beyond me. It's not Baras' style to allow such leaks."

Meaning he probably cleaned house to find the leak.

"Damn sloppy," Pierce said disgustedly. "Least they didn't have us shooting each other. Gets ugly when soldiers get pulled in."

Her Lordship cast Pierce a look of warning. She's permissive about such statements, usually because she agrees with them, but _not_ in public or with some kind of audience. To much more boldness on his part means she'll have to make an example of some kind.

"My lord?"

I tuned to see the Captain marching briskly through the mess. Pierce, facing away from the entrance, nearly wrenched his back and fell out of his chair, which the Captain shot out a hand to stabilize.

"I'm here as required." He bowed, the perfect image of an officer attached to a Sith's service.

After Pierce's breech of etiquette, I had to grin at the Captain's perfect contrast.

Her Lordship smiled, getting to her feet. "There's a certain ensign named Slinte who is somewhat out of his depth. He may become even more so if things continue as they currently are. I don't want him handling my affairs while I'm on such a… charmingly hospitable… little world."

"I understand completely."

She chuckled at this, the unsaid sentiment 'of course you do' hanging in the air.


	34. Chapter 34

**Hoth, Part V**

Commander Lanklyn was a cyborg, though what his cybernetics corrected for or enhanced was impossible to guess. "Get up, Commander," Her Lordship snapped, her tone as frigid and cutting as the winds outside.

The cold of Hoth, as I discovered, was underrepresented in the wider galaxy. Even through thermal suits and additional protective layers the cold managed to get in. My goggles kept fogging around the corners; the wet moisture of my mouth and nose baffle made the cold seem more pronounced even if it kept the wind at bay.

That wind could and would cut right through a person.

The Commander (as well as the three men with him) broke out of their communal huddle. Although left their thermal clothes, the facility to which we traced them seemed just as cold as anywhere else. It had _snow_ in it, for crying out loud. Ice, I could understand but how is _snow_ supposed to get into a building?

This planet really is ridiculous.

I shivered as the Imperials hastily gave Her Lordship wilted salutes—more from a taxing captivity than because they didn't intend proper respect.

On Alderaan, snow is cause for a holiday or accompanies a season full of diversions and hot drinks. This is just ridiculous. Too much of a good thing. I can see why the Captain didn't want to come down here, even if Her Lordship was going. From what I know of the man, his escape from this icebox must have been _very_ narrow indeed.

"My lord… is that you?" Lanklyn squinted. "We heard the noise and grew hopeful—" his voice, feeble as it was, annoyed me. The way he seemed to shy away, as if expecting retaliation and was afraid to face it, disgusted me. I was disappointed in Baras for keeping such a man as this in his employ.

'We heard the noise and grew hopeful' indeed.

"You're in the presence of a Lord among Sith, you miserable mynocks!" Pierce barked, making the Imperials jump and snap to with more starch. Well, the others did. Lanklyn flinched. That he didn't argue with a mere lieutenant calling him out like that indicated how well aware he was of being in no small amount of disgrace and a larger amount of trouble.

"Your capture is a _disgrace_ ," Her Lordship noted acidly, directing herself to the commander, but not to his men. "You're lucky I don't gut you here and stake you out for the wampas." To underscore the sentiment, she pointed at him with an unignited lightsaber.

Lanklyn recoiled, hands slightly raised as if he wanted to try placating her but couldn't figure out how to do it.

From the corner of my eye I saw Pierce nod. It seemed that everyone was certain that this displeasure was aimed at Lanklyn as the commanding officer, while his men were quite exempt from it. They fidgeted though, on tenterhooks as to how volatile the Sith was and whether she would turn on them next.

Lanklyn winced. "Please, my lord, I beg your tolerance—"

Ouch. I didn't think her mouth could get any thinner. I think she's more upset that he tried to do this himself when he's so incompetent (hence his posting on Hoth) than anything else. Everyone has limits; it seems the Commander doesn't know or won't accept his own. Hence this fiasco.

"Explain _this_ ," Her Lordship gestured to the facility and Lanklyn's men.

"Come on, boys," Pierce said quietly before shuffling the rest of Lanklyn's men away, probably to get them rearmed and re-equipped for the field. Goodness knows it's going to be a rough trip back to Dorn Base; the amount of snow the last storm dumped was staggering. The garrison barely managed to get the entrance clear when we left. "Leave Her Lordship to it. Not going to be a spectator sport, this."

Quite.

"J-Jedi Xerender is a cunning adversary," Lanklyn reported, trying to pass his shivers off as cold and not a reaction to Her Lordship's (ironically) frosty displeasure. "I thought I was tracking him and his men when I found myself led into a pirate ambush." Lanklyn swallowed, more and more aware of the burning orange eyes boring into his face. "…it seems he had the Republic's elite Talz commandos lure me off his trail."

Talz. Not normally something I'd associate with commandos. Then again, I'd never had cause to think much about the Talz. They're a cold-weather species, so they don't often leave their preferred environment. Thus, you don't see them very often in the wider galaxy.

"They, the Talz, are unmatched trackers. Highly cunning." Lanklyn was not really helping himself. It might not be so bad if he didn't sound like he was making feeble excuses.

"So you, who are not a tracker, ventured out on a mission for which you are ill-suited and Xerender outsmarted you?" Her Lordship summed up cuttingly. Since her mouth couldn't get any thinner, her eyes narrowed.

Lanklyn actually backed up, apparently expecting her to come at him in order to relieve him of his command… and his life. I suppose he thought succeeding in… whatever he was trying to do… might get him out of disgrace. At least enough to get him off Hoth.

"I have no idea how he knew," Lanklyn protested timorously. "I did everything right."

Apparently not.

"Your mission _failed_ ," Her Lordship said as coldly as the weather outside, pointing the unignited lightsaber at him again. "You will return to Dorn Base _immediately_ and remain there until directed otherwise. My aide, Captain Quinn is also there. You will take your lead from him until this… _mess_ … can be sorted out."

"Y-yes, my lord. If… if I may finish my report?" Lanklyn asked diffidently.

She gave the merest tip of her chin to indicate he might do so.

"If Xerender has been given command of the Talz, this weapon he's after is of supreme importance."

To quote Vette, duh. If Xerender's the bigwig I have the impression he is, he's not looking for a crate of blasters or thermal detonators. Not on a world like this.

"I know where the Talz headquarters is located."

Her Lordship's eyebrows arched.

"Perhaps you can force one of them to confess what Xerender's after."

No doubt she can. Or maybe she'll let me do it, for training purposes. It's one thing to do it from a position of strength like on Alderaan. This is different. Field work.

"Very well. Give me the coordinates, then you're dismissed."

Lanklyn produced a datastrip which, with shaking hands, he gave Her Lordship. He bowed deeply, cringing—almost cowering—before slinking from her presence.

"I think Baras really will have had enough of him," Her Lordship said darkly, watching the Commander's retreat. "I can't say he's improved." With that, she considered the coordinates on the datastrip, handed it over to me, then produced the map the Captain ensured sure she had before leaving base. More than anything else, it contained emergency shelter information, as well as Imperial bases—ways to ensure her continuing safety against a foe she couldn't fight.

After a few brief calculations, she pointed to the map. "This is where we're heading."

It was going to be a long trip. "Will you allow me to question the Talz, once we have one?"

"Would you like to?" Her Lordship asked indulgently.

"This is a very different situation or Alderaan," I pointed out. "There, we dealt with prisoners who had time to get used to the idea of being prisoners. These people will be fresh and, given the situation, hardened. It would benefit my training immensely."

"That's certainly true. But let's not commit to anything just yet. This world seems to require a certain fluidity in those who would work here."

That's true enough.

Pierce returned at that moment, nodding his head to Her Lordship. "Got the men squared away, they're heading out on Republic speeders. Place has plenty of supplies; those'll be appropriated once the garrison's got this place's coordinates. Already sent 'em to the Captain." Although his mouth twisted at mention of the Captain, it was another proof that he was soldier enough, dedicated enough, not to let personal issues get in the way. "Says he'll organize a recovery squad right away. Also told him Lanklyn would be showing up. Figured you'd expect the man to report to the Captain."

"If I'd lost faith in the Imperial Armed Forces, you'd have restored it by now, Pierce."

"Has to be a reason anyone's in this icebox. Fella better shape up if he wants to keep breathing," Pierce said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. I noticed, though, that he looked a little more pleased with himself than usual at Her Lordship's remark. It's not one she'd make idly.

I found myself nodding my agreement… and hoping I'd be there to see how Baras chose to dispatch Lanklyn.

 **Hoth, Part VI**

By the time we reached the coordinates provided by Lanklyn, I'd had quite enough of Hoth. There's _nothing here_ except cold and caves. Or caves converted into facilities of differing kinds. If I thought Taris was a punishment detail, Hoth is a true career graveyard.

If I never come back here it'll be too soon.

"Why is this ice block so important again?" I asked, trying not to sound like I was whining but not entirely succeeding.

Fortunately, Her Lordship was in no better mood, it was just beneath her to actually whine. "For us, because Xerender wants something. We'll take our stint on this miserable block out of his hide," she answered darkly. "Pierce—the wider implications?"

"For salvage," Pierce answered. "The Republic and the Empire both want to get their hands on what they can. Bunch of bantha shit if you ask me. There was a massive space battle during the war—and I do mean _massive_. Most of the ships ended up crashing here. Not much of a ground war followed, as you can imagine. Nor much of a rescue effort by either side."

I could imagine. I'm in extreme low temperature gear, I've been physically active, but I'm _still_ cold. Some people might joke about snuggling up to someone for 'shared body warmth' but if you try anything outside your thermal suit you're liable to find frostbite… places. Another reason to hate this world: no warm distractions.

To the point, those crashed ships wouldn't necessarily have cold weather survival gear. Add to that hostile forces in the area, a rescue might be difficult to even consider. I imagine there are _a lot_ of frozen bodies scattered across Hoth, entombed in ice, perfectly preserved and perfectly _dead_. The thought made me shiver.

More than frozen ice cubes of soldiers from battles before my time were casualties of… something. Lying some feet ahead of us were two Talz, bodies mutilated, their white pelts matted with blood.

Her Lordship and I both raised our lightsabers, partly for light but partly in readiness. Behind us, where Pierce was learning to stay, his blaster charged, rattling a little as he brought it to his shoulder.

Up close, the damage was mostly inflicted by a sword. But their faces… it was as if someone or something went at them with naked claws. Their fur only slowed the attacks.

"Wampa?" I asked, looking around nervously. When one thinks of hostile wildlife on Hoth, the wampa is the thing everyone thinks about. They're big ambush predators and always hungry. They'll have a go at Sith or Jedi if that Sith or Jedi can't fight them off.

"Jaesa, this is a populated area," Her Lordship answered grimly. "I highly doubt there will be wampas. Besides, the claw marks are far too small."

"Oh… yes. I'm sorry. That was silly of me." I moved forward to study the claw marks as she was doing, turning my hand so I could imagine the orientation from the attack. From the front, like a smack… but the sword wound itself came from the back. The second body had a sword wound across the belly, spilling out innards with a nauseating odor. So it looked like both Talz were wounded, then clawed to death.

"Sword and claws," Her Lordship murmured, considering the corpses.

They weren't what I'd call 'fresh' but 'fresh' enough for the little space, that 'air bubble' as I thought of it, in the Force where their lives had been hadn't finished filling in.

Pierce squatted beside the corpse. "'Bout the right size for another Talz. Never heard of a clawed-up victim, though. Not usually their thing."

"There's something interesting here. Come, let's see what else it's left behind."

I fell in at her shoulder, senses pricked for… something. Anything.

Further in was a kind of… hut village. Or maybe they were tents. Regardless, more Talz lay in gory disarray on the ground, blood seeping into it. The smell of the blood was almost enough to distract me from reaching out with my senses. Thus, I nearly missed the unmistakable echoes of a Force-user.

The lad was barely eighteen, maybe not even that. He stood close to the fire at the center of the camp, a shadow against the flames, his yellow lightsaber ignited. In place, he fidgeted, jumping at noises.

Her Lordship cocked her head, bent down to retrieve a small stone, then threw it across the cavern.

The Padawan—he couldn't be anything else—jumped with a yelp, fear sheeting away from him like oil on water.

"I… don't think he's perceived us," I whispered to Her Lordship.

"Why do you torment me?!" the Padawan screeched, voice unnaturally high. "I'm not part of your vendetta!"

I caught it, lurking on the far side of the room, a whiff of something… bloodthirsty. Malicious intent.

"I sense it," Her Lordship said, as if I'd tipped my hand about what I meant to say. "Hang back a little, Pierce. Just in case." She strode forward into the light, giving a small, preemptory cough.

The Padawan whirled around in search of the sound before locating us, pointing his lightsaber in our direction. The swing of the weapon caused the shadows around us to dance. Closer, he was covered in the muck sweat of terror.

"It's strange to find a Padawan kept company only by the dead," I observed as I stepped over another mutilated Talz rather than go around it. "Usually there's someone martially competent on hand."

"What do you know about it?" the Padawan hissed, eyes popping and showing too much white. As we got closer, the sense of terror became unsettling to my stomach.

I chuckled, stopping at Her Lordship's shoulder. "I used to be one."

The Padawan's face contorted into confusion, lightsaber lowering as if he couldn't quite understand the connection.

"Who are you, and why are all these Talz dead?" Her Lordship demanded.

The Padawan pinched his lips, then gave a half-hysterical laugh. "I am Xerender's errand boy. The one he leaves behind to die," the lad answered.

"I smell someone of Nomen Karr's bent, my lord."

"Nomen Karr's fault lay in trying to protect you too much. He didn't simply leave you standing around where just anyone—or, as in this case, any _thing_ —could assail you."

"I meant _pride_ , my lord," I answered, unperturbed. "An arrogance that gets other people hurt or killed. I'm sure he'll write this boy and these Talz off as acceptable losses if it gets him what he wants. I'm just as sure his superiors will swallow that bantha shit right down while smiling benevolently the whole time." It sounds like a rather Sith mindset. I wonder what the Jedi would think if someone called them on this.

…if you can call it thinking.

"Ah. In that case, I'm in _thorough_ agreement with you." Turning her attention to the Padawan (who looked more confused and uneasy than ever), "You still haven't told me about these Talz."

The boy's lips began to move as he stepped back, then stepped back again. His postured tightened.

"He's yours, Jaesa. Bear in mind that I wish to question him again once his disposition has improved."

I didn't wait for the Padawan to finish whatever self-righteous pumping up he'd begun—because it was clear to me that he was trying to work himself up. I sprang forward, ducking the clumsy swipe he made at me (more to repel a threat than do anything constructive about it), taking his sword arm off at the elbow before twisting the Force around his neck, imagining the current coiling under his chin. "My master has questions," I declared, returning to her side. It was harder to hold the choke without being able to see the victim, but I managed. "You would be wise to answer them."

"Neatly done. I—no." Her Lordship held up a hand. "No, this is an exercise for you. Let's see how you've been keeping up. You did ask. He's all yours, Jaesa."

I considered the kneeling Padawan. It's unlikely he knows anything about Xerender's mission or whereabouts. With a gesture, I released the pressure on his throat. "There's something here, slaughtering these Talz. What is it?" Best to ask him something he _does_ know.

The thing in here with us, if it's any kind of ambush predator it'll go for the wounded boy first. Probably me second as the smallest member of our troupe. Unless it goes for Pierce, since he's not a Force-user or because he's physically the largest. Or maybe it'll try getting the jump on Her Lordship since she's the strongest one here. It all depends on what the assailant sees and how it assesses threats. Maybe Pierce first, since he's a full-grown male.

"It's… it's Broonmark," the Padawan hissed, cradling the stump of his arm as he knelt there.

A creep of disgust began to worm its way through my innards. You'd never catch me behaving like this. I consider it a mark of progress.

"He's a savage Talz, murdering Fetzellen and the others for—" The Padawan's head shot up before he staggered to his feet. We all felt it, a shift in hostile intent. But while Her Lordship and I could tell direction it was clear the Padawan couldn't. Too far gone with pain and fear, I think; his mind was fracturing under their combined weight.

You know, I do believe this Padawan, in slightly less immediate circumstances, might be a good candidate to be brought over to the Dark Side. It's that 'fear, anger, hate' thing. The Force _could_ set him free. But honestly, he's such a weak little thing and stupid. Imagine being more afraid of this Broonmark character than Her Lordship. As if she couldn't dispatch this Talz, no matter how savage. Best this boy die here; he'd weaken any Order he's in. The Jedi ought to send Her Lordship a nice fruit basket for saving them some trouble.

I nearly jumped when the boy's throat tore open, red lines sending gushes of blood down his front, he gurgled as a Talz, fur stained around the hands and spattered almost everywhere else, appeared from within a stealth field. It grabbed the side of the boy's head in one hand, his shoulder in the other and _wrenched_.

The Padawan hit the ground in a boneless pile, still looking shocked and terrified.

The Force has a wide array of practical applications; many of them have nothing to do with combat _or_ defense. Any Force-user with sufficient training (this was one thing the Jedi got right) can use it to understand languages without a translator and—which is more useful—use it to answer back intelligibly if the subject doesn't speak Basic. So when the Talz began to warble at us, I understood what it was saying, even though the actual speech was little more than the 'wom-wom-[snotty-sounding inhale]-phwom' of a distorted speaker.

The Talz, like most of its kind, was big, making even Pierce look a little undersized. Even for a Talz, though, it was bulky… though that might just be the fur. Four eyes and a proboscis-like mouth made it look strangely bug-like, in spite of its copious amounts of shaggy fur.

Claws (some Talz) and teeth (from other species), hung from strings or were bound to straps, gruesome trophies (some of them still bloody) adorning the beast's body. Murderous intent hung around the thing like a bad smell. And yet, it managed to get close enough to kill the Padawan before I was able to pinpoint the epicenter of said murderous cloud.

" _Another death at our hands… Sith must leave now or join the dead,_ " the Talz, Broonmark I suppose, warbled, pointing a clawed finger, still dripping, at Her Lordship.

She eyed it, nonplussed. Disdaining, even. "Well done dispatching that fool, but heed your limitations."

Broonmark bristled, fur rising like the hackles of a dog to make him look bigger.

Her Lordship merely stood where she was, eyelids lowering as she discreetly coiled herself for a spring.

"… _Sith comes from a strong clan, we know_ ," Broonmark observed.

"Take that assessment and double it."

The beast's fur began to flatten as it cocked its head. One would think it had never met a Sith before, or maybe Her Lordship was simply making an extreme impression.

Behind us, Pierce shifted. I had to wonder if his translator picked up Broonmark's speech or if he was in the dark.

" _Our clan is betrayed,_ " Broonmark suddenly volunteered. If the sudden insight surprised Her Lordship she didn't show it. It surprised me, though. I mean, why tell us? " _Fetzellen now leads. Fetzellen and all who follow him must die._ "

"I seek a Jedi Knight, Xerender."

Broonmark nodded. " _We know of Sith's search. Xerender is with Fetzellen. But Sith must_ _not_ _get in our way._ " The Talz ended on a vibratory sound which I took to be a growl.

Her Lordship studied Broonmark critically. "Then perhaps we should work together, as we share a common purpose."

I frowned, then mentally nodded. It's less a willingness to work together and more an expedience: I have the feeling Broonmark could make himself quite the nuisance. That will prolong our stay on Hoth. Besides, we can always kill him later.

" _Sith purpose is war with Jedi—complicated. Our purpose is cleansing revenge—simple._ "

"Revenge is _never_ simple."

No one knows that like a Sith knows it. Sith warring with the Jedi? Very simple. Just put two in the same room and wait a couple of minutes; the predictability is so easy it's mind-numbing.

" _Our clan must be clean. We_ _must_ _have our vendetta,_ " Broonmark snapped, posture shifting into something truly aggressive.

I adjusted my footing, then my grip on my lightsaber; Pierce repositioned himself as well.

Her Lordship remained still. "Then stay away from my mission."

" _Do_ _not_ _block our hunt._ " This time, there was a true snarl in the words as Her Lordship's calm, condescending presentation, her unswerving willfulness, began to rasp at the Talz. She's Sith; even if she doesn't voice a threat she can back it up. Surely this Talz knows that.

"Then keep it out of my way."

" _We must beat—_ "

Her Lordship moved before Broonmark could finish his threat or take hold of his sword. To my surprise she didn't kill, or simply remove limbs: she merely left three ugly burns: one on the side Broonmark exposed in reaching for his sword, upon his ribs; one on his sword arm, just above the elbow; and one against the opposite side of his neck as she completed the hook-shaped charge. The odor of burning hair and burned flesh blossomed in the cold air. All three wounds began weeping, the sticky excretion glistening.

The execution was flawless, the turns involved precise, the blows landed exact—her lightsaber was on at full power, after all, yet all she did was give him a handful of burns. She could have bitten any of those blows in deep enough to kill or to take off parts if she wanted to.

Broonmark staggered forward, then to the side as he regarded my own lightsaber. Finally, he tripped, landing in a kneeling position. He raised his hands half in placation half to show there was nothing there but claws.

For a moment I thought he might be considering using them, slashing into Her Lordship with a sudden lunge. However, the demonstration to which he'd been treated seemed to settle it for him that she was faster and just plain _better_ than he was.

"… _Sith-clan proves to be superior,_ " Broonmark admitted without moving to look at her.

"You're lucky you're not dead." Her tone said ' _remember it_ ,' because luck had nothing to do with it. If she wanted him dead, he'd be dead. Which means she's either got plans or a use for him.

Broonmark's posture shrunk just the littlest bit, but it contained a degree of submission as Her Lordship returned to stand in front of him, giving every impression of towering over him. " _We are not the focus of Sith hunt,_ " the Talz declared, its warble pitch dropping. " _Sith crave Jedi-clan._ "

"I seek Xerender. Tell me what you know, and you may continue seeking your vendetta." Her Lordship extended one lightsaber, pointing it just under where a normal person's chin would be. One wrong move and he'd take the thrust without being able to do anything about it.

I took a slow breath, focusing on Broonamark. I'd never brought my gift to bear on a Talz; it was quite a different experience from scrying a human.

 _He was a mad dog, little more; he needed specific targets or he'd fly apart, killing anyone and everything he could. He'd fallen in love with killing. In this, he was exceedingly shallow._

If he could be leashed, he could be an asset to the team. His 'scare value' alone would be useful. A pair of Sith accompanied by a Talz murder machine? Scary stuff.

" _Xerender seeks a weapon, but_ _not_ _a weapon. Old member of Jedi-clan._ _Lost_ _member."_

"Does this lost Jedi have a name?"

" _We have heard it called Master Wyellett._ "

"Very well." Her Lordship turned off her lightsaber, but did not clip it back on her belt. She was still having trouble with the draw (as was I). "Continue your murder-spree as you like. Only keep it away from my objectives. You may go."

Broonmark slowly got to his feet, then disappeared as his stealth field engaged.

Her Lordship turned ignited her lightsaber and pointed it, turning slowly. It took me a moment to realize she was tracking Broonmark's movements, letting him know that even if she couldn't _see_ him, she could still kill him.

"Gotta say, m'lord," Pierce announced, once Her Lordship turned off her lightsaber and put it back on her belt. "Damn."

Her Lordship laughed softly, eyes glittering. "Thank you, Pierce. Let's not leave Lanklyn in suspense."

"You're not worried Broonmark might kill Xerender?" I asked.

"It's a possibility," she answered. "But I don't think he will. Wounds such as those require attention as immediate as possible, especially in a hostile climate like this one. I could have crippled him. I could have killed him. He knows both these things. He might be able to fight and kill his own people, or little Padawans left to their own devices, but I am a completely different animal. No. He's violent, not stupid."

Then he's also useful, because while he's not stupid he hardly comes across as clever.

And she's _not_ an animal. I heard her called that once. It's wrong from start to finish.

"You know…" I began delicately. "We _could_ use another bloodthirsty killer on the team."

"We _could_ , couldn't we?" she responded, tone dripping with approval.

The question was whether she wanted that murder-machine anywhere near her crew.

 **Hoth, Part VII**

We arrived back at base just ahead of another storm; this one promised to be small, but even small storms on Hoth can get nasty if you're actually caught out in them. We had equipment for coping, but Her Lordship was as thrilled about using an emergency shelter as I was. They look flimsy.

Lanklyn was in the command node where we found Slinte upon our original arrival. Slinte and the Captain both stood by, one very nervous, the other's expression schooled into marble impassivity. The Captain's aura seemed dampened, as bland an unobjectionable as his expression.

It seemed as though Lanklyn had done his best to prolong the time it would take before he had to suffer Baras' displeasure with him. Unfortunately for him, he could only stall so long, which was why we entered the node to find Baras on holo while Lanklyn tried desperately not to panic. The fear rolled off him in waves: he'd screwed up and knew the Darth's tolerance was growing thin.

"— _disgraceful_ ," Baras bit off, hurling the word like a stone. His voice was a serrated knife cutting into anyone he chose to address.

I actually stopped in place, with the result that Pierce knocked into me before stopping himself. It was so unlike Baras to give any sign of uncontrolled anger before witnesses. Usually he kept it all on the inside, relying on his mask to hide any facial cues that might expose themselves as he worked to keep them out of his voice and posture. He might sound hostile, but today there was a savage note I'd never heard before.

Everyone has limits. Maybe Lanklyn is just that big a screw-up. Maybe things on Dromund Kaas weren't going well. His boss is in it for trying to undermine the Dark Council and Baras is trying to undermine him without getting caught. That would put the squeeze on anyone.

Her Lordship ignored the biting tone, presenting herself gracefully behind the Commander before moving to stand beside the Captain.

Pierce, either because I didn't advance or through not wanting to draw undue attention, moved to stand on my left. Between us, we blocked the entryway.

Suddenly, the display flickered, tried to power down, then powered right back up. " _What now_ —" Baras began snappishly.

A secondary feed lit up, displaying a thickly built, broad-chested Jedi. When I say 'thickly built' I mean 'thickly muscled.' His hair, in tight curls which would look matted if they got sweaty, was cropped short and he had the chest thrust out stance of someone not accustomed to losing. But there was readiness in it, even though this was only a holocall.

He was dangerous. Whether he meant to play on the Sith perception of Jedi in general or had worn the mantle so well for so long as to let it become a mask I couldn't tell. All I knew was that however often he might be called a fool, however inferior his skills might be compared to a Sith like Her Lordship, he was a Jedi champion who earned the distinction. This meant merely an increase of caution on the part of Her Lordship, but for lesser Sith? Or me on my own?

Dangerous.

" _Hello, Baras_ ," Xerender declared, mouth twisting wryly. " _Nice weather we're having_."

A dark sense of palpable anger began to fill the room. " _Lanklyn_ ," Baras' voice shook with suppressed rage. " _Get this Jedi_ _off_ _my holo._ "

"I-I can't!" Lanklyn chattered, fingers flying.

" _Now_."

The Captain made as if to push Lanklyn aside to help, but Her Lordship discreetly curled her fingers around the Captain's wrist, fingers tracing little circles on the underside of it. slowly, the Captain let his weight sink back on his heels. As soon as he was settled, Her Lordship released his wrist.

Lanklyn had already tied the rope he'd twisted for himself.

"He's-he's overridden all my controls!" Lankyn gaped, looking from the panel at which he worked to the smiling Jedi. It wasn't a smug smile either, but it was annoying. The kind of smile most people wear when they tell you 'I told you so.'

" _As you can see, Baras,_ " Xerender observed robustly. " _I control this planet… as well as everything on it._ "

Her Lordship leaned over to the Captain, murmuring something to him. He immediately bowed his head before whisking off, Pierce moving to give him room so he could exit uninhibited. No doubt he's off to find out how Xerender got into the system, then he'll wind up the base or put it on lockdown. Maybe backtrack the signal.

" _Your comms included. And I can anticipate your every move. That red-headed lapdog of yours should be back just about now, I think._ "

Her Lordship chuckled and prowled into capture range. "So this is the Jedi I'm going to kill."

Xerender's smile didn't waver, nor did his slightly patronizing tone. " _If your trainer knows what's good for him, he'll muzzle you._ "

"Interesting fetish you've got there," she snarked back without missing a beat.

I bit my lip to stifle my amusement. Pierce, too, snickered under his breath, shaking his head as he did so.

Unfortunately, Xerender wasn't one of the uptight Jedi to get flustered or annoyed since he's not (and if he's a good Jedi never will be) getting any. So to speak. " _I'm not here for a reunion, Baras, or to encourage this one's bad graces._ "

Ouch. If his was an opinion Her Lordship cared about… ouch. Since it's not though… eh. Whatever.

" _I simply wanted you to know you and your Imperial bootlickers are out of your depth here._ " Before anyone could get another word in, Xerender disconnected the call.

Her Lordship's expression was at its most austere as she calculated, speculated, and parsed out whatever she gleaned from this meeting.

The Darth was in a touchy mood; his anger was going to fall like an axe on someone's neck.

Xerender's petty call would have signed someone's death warrant today, Slinte's, perhaps, if not for Lanklyn. It was wasteful. I can only imagine how much harder her expression would be with an innocent flunky paying for Xerender's cheek. It disgusted me; what did Xerender thing would happen in the wake of a harassment call? Not exactly the moral high ground most Jedi like to harp about.

The air seemed to grow cold, thickening like abandoned custard. Suddenly, Lanklyn gasped, his hands flying to his throat as Baras raised a hand. " _You have failed me for the_ _last_ _time_ _, Lanklyn_ ," the Darth snarled, tone actually shaking.

The Force moved strangely, controlled as it was from such a great distance. I wasn't sure I could articulate how, only that seemed to… to grasp at something slippery, like the distance made Lanklyn hard to hold onto or as though the Force here was harder to utilize and required a heavy-handedness unusual to such displays.

This being the first time I'd been present to witness such a thing, I reached out, felt at the Force, studied how it moved in response to the will of a man half a galaxy away.

The Captain returned, but stopped when I held out a hand. He had a datapad with him, which he handed to me. It contained a series of coordinates and a reference map. From the big circle, I could only suppose this was an approximation of the source of Xerender's signal. With the storm undoubtedly having hit by now, coupled with Hoth's proclivity for messing with comms and everything else, it was probably better than most could do.

Once Lanklyn finally went still, Baras flicked his hand and the corpse went flying. It struck a wall with a nasty crunch, then hit the floor. " _Slinte, you are now the coordinator of my dealings on Hoth. Don't screw it up,_ _Commander_." Baras pointed a thick finger at the boy, who gulped audibly, cringing away from the pointing digit.

"I… will not disappoint you… m-my lord," Slinte managed as he turned his head to study his predecessor's crumpled form.

" _Apprentice, you'd better have good news for me,_ " Baras snapped, but with professional impatience rather than the anger to which he'd treated us to displays.

"Xerender isn't looking for an actual weapon. He's looking for one Jedi Master Wyellett," Her Lordship answered promptly.

I nudged the Captain, nodding that it was safe for him to break in. "I've narrowed the search area, my lord," he announced loudly enough for her to hear but not loudly enough for the holocall to catch it.

"My people have already isolated the general area of Xerender's broadcast," Her Lordship continued seamlessly. "Once the storm passes, we will continue reconnaissance."

" _Hmm,_ " Baras rumbled. I could almost hear the wheels in his head ticking. " _Master Wyellett. I thought him dead._ "

"Killed in the space battle over Hoth?" Her Lordship asked.

" _Indeed. During the war I'd succeeded in capturing Wyellett, but the ship conveying him to me was caught in the battle and destroyed. He was one of the Jedi's most powerful masters. It shouldn't surprise me that he survived. Having the body recovered was… not feasible._ "

I thought back to the 'trick' Her Lordship pulled to make everyone think Rathari was dead. She put him in suspension, tied to a wake-word. It's a complex skill belonging to a rather obscure, or so I feel, branch of abilities. It's the same family as the skills allowing a Force-user to hold their breath for insane amounts of time. Also within this branch is the ability to suspend _oneself_ (tethered to a wake-word or some outside stimulus, or even as though on a timer).

So for all these years this master, having survived the ship's explosion and the landing, has waited here in suspension. But how did Xerender figure out where the man was? The various skills that make up what non-Sensitives call 'clairvoyance' usually require a focus of some kind. But if Xerender is bonded to Wyellett as I am to Her Lordship, or was to Master Yonlach, then perhaps that's enough.

Or perhaps Wyellett has finally come out of his trance enough to call for help. That could be it. It seems likely enough.

Baras was silent for so long that I began to shift from foot to foot. Her Lordship must have understood something I didn't, for she waited patiently until Baras took a slow breath. " _I am forwarding you a set of coordinates,_ " he declared briskly, his tone abstracted for the first few words. " _They will lead you to… one of Wyellett's battle trophies. A lightsaber._ _You will recover it for me._ "

"Of course, my master."

…seriously? He wants us on a scavenger hunt while Xerender closes in on the main objective? It must be one heck of a… oh. _Oh_. A battle trophy carried by this Wyellett which is important to Baras? It sounds as though Wyellett took Baras' lightsaber at some point and made use of it.

Embarrassing.

"Uh, m-my lord?" Slinte didn't seem to know which Sith to address. "These coordinates lead to an undocumented sector—it's where pirates and salvagers congregate."

" _And that means what to me?_ " Baras asked darkly, light flashing across his mask as he turned his head to glare (I imagined he was glaring) at the ensign—commander.

"N-nothing in the world my lord, I only thought your apprentice… might want to know," Slinte offered lamely.

Baras said nothing, merely severed the call.

For a few moments, silence settled like a shroud. Unease fluttered in my guts. To put a lightsaber before Wyellett? Or maybe he's simply relying on Her Lordship's ability to prioritize.

"Slinte, my captain will superintend your dealings with me." Her Lordship's quiet tone of command was a stark contrast from Baras' anger. It even went so far as to settle the former ensign a little. "Find out whatever you can about this ridiculous locale. Jaesa."

"My lord?" I sauntered forward, pausing halfway between her and the door.

"Once this storm clears, we're going after Wyellett. Pierce, you as well. The lightsaber can wait." She cast a significant look at the Captain, as if saying 'but if you can keep an eye open, so much the better.'

The Captain inclined his head to show he heard, understood, and would do what he could. If feasible, the weapon will probably be back here by the time we return. If not, he'll have someone providing minute-by-minute updates about the weapon's whereabouts.


	35. Chapter 35

**Hoth, Part VIII**

Her Lordship and I had the privilege of semi-private space in which to sleep. Since the storm was 'light' not 'short duration,' rest seemed wise…

… _if_ it could be obtained.

The room was _just_ like a closet: the small space was barely long enough for a tall person to stretch out full length and only a little wider than my outstretched arms. The bonus of these cramped conditions was that it was a small space to heat. With two bodies in it and the door closed… well. I still wanted my thermal suit, but didn't feel _quite_ as cold as I'd begun to grow accustomed to feeling.

Eventually, Her Lordship's comm device chirruped. "Yes?" she demanded calmly. Since she didn't sit up or move, I could only assume she took the call as audio-only.

" _M'lord, if I may_?" Pierce asked.

"You may."

" _Told you I'd start running the boys down._ " I propped myself up on my elbow, the better to listen. Pierce's grin was audible. " _Finally got in touch with Tanido. Told him I'd like a chat, seeing I was on-planet. Wanted to know if you'd like to be tapped into the conversation. He'll be in rare form._ "

"No. I would like to see this fellow for myself."

" _We'll be in the mess in a couple minutes._ "

"I'll catch you up." Her Lordship threw her bedclothes (or what passes for them out here) back, then hopped off the upper bunk.

"May I come, my lord?" I asked, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I wasn't tired enough not to mind the cold.

"Of course." Her Lordship rolled her shoulders, flexing and stretching muscles. "You should know beforehand that, as you correctly predicted, Pierce's connection to General Rakton has come up. I'm sharing this with you only because you are my apprentice and a discreet one at that."

I nodded, drumming my toes in my boots so as not to show any outward sign that the compliment pleased me. I love it when she shares secret things.

"Pierce had an objective he was drooling after during the war, a place on Corellia. Apparently it's symbolic as well as strategic. Rakton wants Pierce's unit to pick up where they left off—the sooner, the better. He's to reassemble his Black Ops unit, with my permission, in order to take the Bastion. Naturally, I've given him permission and my blessing."

"And he's found his man _here_?"

"I found Quinn on Balmorra. Sometimes things do end up where they shouldn't be."

Her Lordship led us to the mess, which was quite full. Several other Sith, looking as grumpy as many of the soldiers, peppered the ranks. Some of them were easier to spot than others. Some were more obviously Sith than others, but not in looks. Like Her Lordship, it was in the way they carried themselves, the aura around them.

Since Her Lordship and I were dressed in the fairly-standard white, we blended in better than usual.

"—and then he had me forcibly removed from the armory," an officer with a nasal voice was saying to Pierce, looking thoroughly disgusted. "And over a few flash grenades." He sniffed, which caused his tiny mustache to wiggle.

Gross.

"Weapons' master indeed," the officer ended morosely.

Pierce laughed, the sound ringing through the mess, strange and solitary. I'm glad someone's having a good time around here. When he spoke however, it was much quieter than his laugh. "And after you calibrated the assault rifles for him, too. Shame about those cadets, though." Pierce shook his head in a kind of pity-limned amusement.

Her Lordship arrived, drew up a chair at the next table and sat down. She flicked her eyes to me, indicating I should take the spot opposite to her. We were close enough to eavesdrop but not close enough to disrupt the conversation.

"Yes, that _was_ unfortunate," Tanido answered sulkily, his expression twisting. He was handsome, I decided, with the oval face and hard planes I was coming to associate with Imperial men. Like the Captain, he wore his hair pushed away from his face—that mustache though… ew. "How was _I_ to know those rifles were for training? They really should use slaves."

I glanced at Her Lordship, whose expression was perfectly neutral. It sounds like a waste to me. Slavery is one thing in the Empire I doubt I'll ever be truly comfortable with. Hearing this crap from Tanido makes me sure of it. Maybe we ought to use _him_ for target practice…?

"So, that's how I ended up on Hoth, scraping icefrom blaster barrels and reheating ammunition. Pathetic…" Disgusted, Tanido set his caf down, rather too hard. It spilled over his fingers, causing him to hiss and shake his hand. "Damnation!"

I decided that Tanido was not to my taste in any way, shape, or form. Such a sulky little womp rat.

And that _mustache_. Ugh.

Her Lordship chuckled, turning in her chair, leaning one arm casually on the back as she crossed her knees. "On Korriban, we incorporate certain officers into our training regimens," she noted pleasantly, but with a hint of malice. She's not big on waste.

Tanido turned pale and jumped to his feet in order to bow politely as Pierce disappeared behind his own cup of caf. "Then again, Hoth has its charms. The ice crystals form some marvelous patterns!" Tanido almost squeaked.

Her Lordship nodded that it was good for him to recognize it.

I, for my part, couldn't help giggling.

Which begs the question, how did Lanklyn not end up there? On Korriban, that is. Maybe Baras felt it was wasteful.

"May I introduce Her Lordship, Sith Lord Balanchine-Renault." Although phrased as a question, it didn't sound that way. "And her apprentice."

Her Lordship indicated Tanido, whose quick motion caught more than one person's attention, should sit back down.

Tanido shifted in his chair once he sat down, casting surreptitious looks at Her Lordship.

"Think you better start tinkering again," Pierce murmured as conversation around us swung back to its previous pitch. He leaned on the table, and Tanido leaned in as well, interest peaked. "Get that weapon you built for the Bastion out of storage."

Tanido glanced from Pierce to Her Lordship and back, putting the pieces together. "You know very well that that weapon is complete. Complete and waiting for the assault that will never come." But there was a question in the words as he glanced between Pierce and Her Lordship again.

"Change of plans," Her Lordship said, a grimly enthusiastic smile contorting her features.

Pierce grinned. "Meet your new patroness, Tanido. Black Ops is back in business—clearance from Rakton and everything. The Bastion's all ours."

" _If_ you can take it," Her Lordship noted idly.

Pierce wasn't one to walk away from a challenge, which was why he grinned at her. "No worries, m'lord."

During this exchange, Tanido's eyes widened, then his mouth dropped open. For a moment he couldn't seem to believe what he was hearing. Then he suddenly packed it all in. "With your permission, my lord—"

"Granted."

Tanido got to his feet, bowed and hurried out. "When I have the weapon, Pierce, I'll contact you. My lord, my lord." He was so eagerly agitated, despite trying not to show it, that he looked like a man scuttling for the refresher before disaster struck.

It took _so_ much effort not to laugh.

"As you can see, Tanido's not big on wasting time," Pierce observed. "He'll have his kit ready to go quick as a mynock's wings." He gave a huff of amusement, drained his caf, then set the cup on the table. "Good thing, too. Let him idle any longer and there'll be some _real_ damage."

I expected Her Lordship to criticize this lack of control, but she didn't. "Hopefully being busy will keep him out of trouble. Or from making more."

"He's just dedicated. Bit haphazard, but dedicated," Pierce responded complacently. "You'll see."

 **Hoth, Part IX**

In spite of the cold, in spite of the dryness of the air, I was _sweating_. My toes in my boots were clammy and colder than ever, while my fingers slipped around in my gloves. The anger and frustration at being so uncomfortable on this miserable ice-ball were useful… but it was hard to keep them focused, to not simply let them radiate off, undirected, the way I would have before Her Lordship started training me.

Talz (as well as parts of them) lay scattered about as Her Lordship and I continued carving our way through Xerender's last known coordinates. Given the number, it seemed we'd hit the main bulk of the clan's fighters. This was it, the last push.

Unsurprisingly by this point, the coordinates led us to the Starship Graveyard. Given the circumstances around Master Wyellett, I'd known for ages that we'd end up here.

I wasn't prepared for the actuality of the graveyard. Massive, and I mean _dreadnought_ _massive_ , ships lay in pieces ranging from sheared off plates to giant superstructures, all coated in ice, cushioned by drifted snow. It was a strange parody of a city, glittering in the bright sunlight and it went on as far as I could see in any direction except the one from which we'd come.

You could probably walk _days_ and not come to the other edge of the debris field.

The presence of salvagers left traces, too: in spite of us being here so close to the tail-end of the last storm, there were footprints everywhere in the glittering, powdery snow. Bits and pieces of salvage lay tossed aside as if their value proved too dubious for the salvagers to want to carry them.

And, of course, Talz. They'd begun getting in our way as we approached the coordinates we got from the Captain. Fortunately, even though they had natural camouflage, a Sith who took a moment could sense them; stripped of their ability to blend in, they died like anyone or anything else.

Although very general, finding the place we wanted wasn't that hard: just look for where the Talz congregated. It wouldn't make sense for Xerender, knowing he was hunted, not to leave a rearguard. So far, it looked like this plan to find Xerender and Wyellett seemed to be working.

We hadn't seen hide nor hair of Broonmark, but I figured he couldn't be too far off. It made me nervous, but each time I quested out to try to catch a sign of hostile intent, or a presence where there shouldn't be one, I found nothing.

"We're getting… close…" Her Lordship's words trailed off as we found ourselves in along room, empty but for one Talz.

I caught it, a faint shift in the Force. Apparently Broonmark made it to the party after all. Within seconds, I could feel the hostility, the virulent hatred for the Talz at the end of the room. That particular Talz paced before the door with the air of someone not inclined to give up his position.

That meant Xerender and Wyellett lay beyond.

"Watch yourself," I murmured to Pierce, "we're not alone."

" _Him_ again?" Pierce asked in a disgusted undertone before dissolving into irritable insults about Broonmark.

" _Sith-clan conquer all our Talz._ " Meaning this one is likely Fetzellen, which really explains Broonmark, which means I need to keep my attention tuned—for my safety as much as because it's my job to back Her Lordship as best I'm able. " _Fetzellen commands this clan. Fetzellen is strongest._ "

"Your failure to put that strength to good use leaves you with no clan at all. Being strongest is hardly something to be proud of at this point," Her Lordship answered cuttingly.

The Talz bobbed its helmeted head in a way that had meaning… to another Talz. " _We swear our lives to Jedi Xerender. We protect him as one._ "

"What a convenient justification."

I agreed wholly. It's a nice thing to say when you're the last sapient standing. I'm sure the Talz we've cut through so far would disagree. Why break themselves upon the rock that is Her Lordship when there's no hope of winning? And for what? A Jedi who can't bring himself to stand with them? Who throws them so uselessly at us?

Xerender may give me pause, but I find him disgusting. Her Lordship, even I, would take out the threat before letting it corner us. Then the search could be made with watchfulness, but without certain knowledge of a potent enemy left living.

These Jedi. So wasteful. The more I see, the more I wonder how their Order survived so long. They make me sick. I had to unclench my teeth at risk of starting to grind them.

" _Sith-clan must not pass._ "

"I'm but one of your worries, Fetzellen. You're not deceiving anyone else, Broonmark." And, for effect, Her Lordship pointed one lightsaber at the apparently empty air.

With a whine I could only describe as disappointment, Broonmark deactivated his stealth generator.

Pierce flinched, pointed his rifle, but did nothing more. He might have opened fire had I not warned him about Broonmark earlier. Pierce is very much a 'shoot first, questions later' sort. _Especially_ when it comes to an unstable element like Broonmark.

Fetzellen bristled. He and Broonmark broke into such a flurry of Talzzi that my ability to follow the conversation seemed to… ripple. If the conversation was water, then someone dropped a stone into it, leaving me only a vague idea here and there. The best I could make out was hostility and trash talk.

Abruptly, Fetzellen drew his vibroblade.

Broonmark, however, hastily appealed to Her Lordship—wise, on the whole. " _Sith-clan! This is the clan-betrayer Fetzellen. Our clan_ _must_ _be clean!_ "

"There's not much of a clan left, as you very well know."

" _Broonmark_ _is left,_ " Broonmark insisted.

I saw what she was doing: using Fetzellen and Broonmark's being the last of his clan to levy the Talz's long-term cooperation. From what I understand, Talz don't do well in the singular; they like having 'clans', either fellow Talz or some other group. It's part of the reason they refer to themselves in the plural.

She's already proved she's stronger than he is, and effortlessly at that. The burns she'd inflicted earlier had been clumsily dressed with a greenish-brown paste, the contents of which I didn't begin to question. You don't see much brown or green on Hoth.

We _could_ use a mindless killer like Broonmark, particularly since he'll remain at heel. He won't find a better place to try quenching his bloodlust than with a Sith. He knows this. He also knows that one wrong move and he's dead.

Fetzellen began to shift sideways; I matched him step for step until he realized that there was no flanking my master and Broonmark, nor any chance of running for safety or for Xerender. He was quite trapped.

" _Sith-clan is superior. Give us Fetzellen and we pledge ourselves to your clan—fight for you. Kill for you. Until we are dead,_ " Broonmark offered. To his credit, he didn't sound like he was trying to wheedle the kill from Her Lordship. She could flatten Fetzellen easily enough, but it would be a waste of energy for her to do it. On the other hand, Fetzellen meant something to Broonmark. Therefore, Her Lordship was the gainer by this exchange: she saved her strength, had an obstacle removed without effort on her part, and gained Broonmark's services. Even if she decided she wasn't interested in the latter, she still didn't need to lift a finger to have her way cleared.

"What do you think, Jaesa? I have my own opinions, but I'm curious to hear yours." Again, her voice had the ring of 'Are you attending? Are you learning?'

I didn't abandon my spot covering Fetzellen. "Let the creature have his revenge. We should see what we're getting before we say yes or no. If he pleases you, we could always use another bloodthirsty killer."

The Captain and Vette would probably disagree. I think Pierce disagreed too, but he'd never say anything. He hasn't mastered the art of demure interjections.

"You mirror my opinion of the matter. Make it quick, Broonmark. My own prey awaits." And, to show she really meant it, she turned off her lightsabers—though she didn't clip them to her belt.

It was a quick fight, if only because Her Lordship was in a hurry. If she hadn't been, I'm sure Broonmark would have taken his time to break Fetzellen down before administering the _coup de grace_ , the better to highlight what Her Lordship was getting. In this case, I think he made it as quick as possible in order to show he could follow orders in spite of what he wanted.

Regardless, the brute didn't even draw his sword: he simply charged, looped Fetzellen and raked the other Talz across the chest with his claws. The blow connected solidly, but a Talz's fur is thick. Not quite natural armor, but it's made to insulate from the cold; it's not something to be disarranged casually. The blow, as it turned out, was simply to distract and stun, for the tussle that followed ended in Broonmark (with a high-pitched scream) finally yanking Fetzellen's helmet free and flinging it away.

If Broonmark had had teeth I might have expected him to use them.

Within moments Fetzellen's sword lay halfway across the room, the two Talz rolling around, locked in combat. Bloody streaks appeared on the ground, blossoms of color matting the fighters' fur. The superiority was with Broonmark. He finally rose from Fetzellen's corpse, liberally smeared in blood—some of it his own—and stepped away.

To my surprise, he got down on his knees, warbling at the body, " _We are cleansed_." For a moment longer he remained there, then got up, brushing claws through his matted fur and setting himself to rights before speaking to Her Lordship. " _Our vendetta is met—we are your clan. We are yours to command._ "

"Excellent." Her Lordship cast me a sidelong look and nodded.

"Fight alongside me, Monster. No enemy shall stand against us," I declared.

To my dismay, Broonmark laughed. " _Sith-young will stand alone, one day._ " The words were indulgent, reassuring, promissory even… and utterly inappropriate.

My mouth dropped open incredulously as Pierce tried not to laugh—more at my expression than anything. I'm not entirely certain his translator handled Talzzi.

Even Her Lordship seemed amused by this, but the look she shot me indicated expectation that Broonmark's opinion on this matter would soon change. "Pierce, you will remain here. I don't trust this icy world not to play us a trick or two. Guard our backs," Her Lordship commanded.

"Yes, m'lord," Pierce nodded, stifling his amusement.

"I mean it, Pierce," Her Lordship reiterated. "Stay here until Jaesa and I return. Call for help if anything goes wrong."

Pierce nodded again, amusement abruptly drained by this reiteration of her orders. She almost never reinforces them like that.

I never thought of Hoth as an enemy in and of itself, but maybe I should have been thinking that way. Sith do not beg for rescue, but a prudent person—Sith or otherwise—knows when to plan an 'in case of emergency' extraction.

The return to business hit me like cold water. Many of these ships, when they crashed, flash-melted the snowy terrain, their own hot metal warping, twisting, deforming. Does metal disintegrate on impacts like the ones these ships suffered? Anyway, the ships we'd passed through seemed half ship and half cavern. Maybe the caverns just grew on the ships' frameworks, like rock candy on its stick.

I glanced overhead. The ceiling didn't look like a ship; it looked like an ice cave… and if I thought Xerender looked a little tough, I could only imagine what Wyellett might be like. I mean, he's been here, in suspension, for… I don't know how long. That speaks of strength.

I reached out, found Xerender easily, but no sign of Master Wyellett. Maybe he wasn't awake yet. Maybe he was actually dead. Who can say?

"Jaesa, Broonmark. We've an appointment."

I hurried to Her Lordship's shoulder, and Broonmark trudged behind us, his big feet going crunch-crunch in the snow.

 **Hoth, Part X**

I couldn't quite fathom it. Master Wyellett was awake, but I couldn't feel him in the Force. That simply wasn't possible—he was _alive_ , he was _conscious_ … but he just _wasn't there_. My guts began to squirm uneasily.

"Hold back unless called for," Her Lordship said, motioning Broonmark to wait inside the doorway.

The room in which we found ourselves didn't resemble anything like a starship: it was simply a massive cavern of ice. A hole in the wall showed where Xerender had melted Wyellett out. On a thermal sheet to keep them out of the snow, Xerender knelt beside his former master, trying to help him into a thermal jacket.

The old man seemed utterly enfeebled, dazed and not quite certain of things. But he was talking to Xerender, seemed to be reassuring the younger man.

Her Lordship's breath caught, then exhaled slowly in a long coil of steam. "Ah." It was the 'ah' of someone who finally understood something and who was genuinely impressed… perhaps even a little awed.

If it can awe Her Lordship it must be something, but I couldn't piece together what it was. Except that there was nothing in the Force to indicate Master Wyellett's existence. Even _droids_ make little ripples in the Force, not like living people, but they are perceptible.

Suddenly the old Jedi stiffened and Xerender's head shot up. His eyes narrowed as he eased his master to the ground before getting to his feet. "Baras' lapdog." He flicked his lightsaber out.

"I can see why Baras was so interested in you, Master Wyellett," Her Lordship said quietly, without a shred of disdain or haughtiness. She sounded… not reverent, but she actually paid the old Jedi a shallow bow, as if he was worthy of her respect, regardless of which Order he served.

The idea floored me.

"Jaes—ah." I looked over at her to find her looking surprised, as if she expected me to know something only to discover I didn't. "Figure it out while I manage Xerender."

I scowled as she ignited her lightsabers. I've missed something and it's something that should be obvious. Unease coiled in my belly as I watched Her Lordship and Xerender take positions. I didn't miss that she seemed not to want to get too close to Master Wyellett.

Why? What's he done but sit there (half-lying there, now)? He hasn't uttered one syllable to her. He hasn't given her any display of strength. Nothing. He simply is…

Oh. _Oh_. That's _it_. He simply _is_. I can't feel him through the Force not because he isn't there but because he's _all here_. He's… immense, the epicenter of a giant bubble in the seascape of my perceptions. I didn't feel him because I'd already crossed the threshold for recognizing him as a presence, like falling through a gas giant: the pressure starts as nothing but gets stronger over time until its finally crushing. I _looked_ at him, reached out through my gift now that I knew what I was looking for—

I hissed and took three steps back. White lights popped before my eyes, my ears filled with static. My knees buckled under me sending me to the ground in an ungainly sprawl. I understood what captured Her Lordship's respect: Sith respect power before all things; Master Wyellett didn't just _have power_ , he _was power_. It was as if the Force had begun threading through him to incorporate him directly into itself, not as something that fed it, or helped it grow but as if it was bringing a severed part of itself back into the whole.

Oh… we're going to have to kill him quickly. He could flatten any member of the Dark Council—several at once, maybe—if he wanted to, I'm sure of it! Fear and awe warred in my belly, so much so that the fight between Her Lordship and Xerender disappeared as I regarded the withered figure the Force seemed to use as a hand puppet.

Years he's been here, suspended, meditating and for years the Force has sustained him. He gives himself up and it takes what is given, giving back what is needed in exchange. I didn't… I didn't know such things were possible. It's a strength, a… something… that transcends the boundaries of Jedi and Sith. Light and Dark no longer apply to Wyellett. Like the Force, he simply _is_.

If any Jedi deserved the title 'Master,' then Master Wyellett was that Jedi.

Still… the idea of killing him seemed a sad thing. To destroy a living treasure? It's absolutely necessary, he'll only share what he knows with his Jedi cohorts, but… still… if I had my way, if I could be sure that knowledge of his location could die with Xerender… I would find a way to put him back in his icy tomb, safe, protected from the galaxy and its corrupting influences—Sith or Jedi. Either Order, either philosophy, would only sully what he's become. _That_ would be more of a crime than killing him.

"Wait." Although Master Wyellett's voice was physically feeble, it rumbled like thunder, or like a charging bantha through a small corridor. All power, it rocked against my senses.

Her Lordship had Xerender on the ground, stunned and vulnerable, but Master Wyellett's word stopped the killing blow in an instant. There was no compulsion in the word. There was no threat. But she stopped, all the same, movement arrested as though she'd been flash-frozen. She straightened, stepped back and turned to face Master Wyellett, who had regained his feet.

I'd never seen Her Lordship give ground, but when Master Wyellett took a step towards her, she stepped back as though menaced. She shivered from head to foot and, for once, her façade of total calm, of utter control, was peeled back.

She doubted.

She _feared_.

"Had my strength returned before this moment, I would have counseled Xerender not to challenge you," Master Wyellett said, the rolling sonorous reinforcement through the Force quieting.

Overhead came an unpleasant sound, that of ice cracking. Shards and flakes of ice drifted down.

Uh-oh.

Master Wyellett looked up. "Your fight has made this chamber unstable," he observed. He didn't sound in the least bit concerned. "If I am any judge of such things, it nears an inevitable collapse. You would be wise to leave."

"I can't," she answered mechanically, as if the words were squeezed out of her. Her next motion was jerky, unrefined, a brute-force manipulation of the Force that snapped Xerender's neck before she sent him flying across the room. She backed up two steps more as if ready for Master Wyellett to retaliate.

Master Wyellett bowed his head, eyes half-closed. "I had forgotten how Sith fear," he said softly. Pain and remorse filled the air like the smell of autumn on a clear day.

It left even my eyes prickling. Goodness knows _I_ felt it, the powerful crushing sense of losspressing me down into the ground. It was one reason I hadn't bothered even attempting to get to my feet. It pulsed in my blood. It pattered in my heart. I wanted to squeeze my eyes closed and cover my ears.

"You serve Darth Baras, do you not?"

"Yes, Master Wyellett." Her Lordship's tone was perfectly polite, deferential even.

Wow. Then again, if I'm back here feeling crushed, she's standing right in the brunt of it. It said something about her that she could actually _stand_ there, speak coherently, and retain her grip on her lightsaber.

The Jedi—or whatever he was now—studied her as more of the ice above began to creak. "So much potential," Master Wyellett shook his head. "A criminal waste." With that, he sauntered over to the nearest icy outcropping and sat down.

To my surprise, he didn't drag philosophy into it, didn't whine about her being Sith or the Dark Side, or give her platitudes about the strength of the Light or the Jedi. He simply recognized that which existed, and recognized it in terms of its purest form.

"Your purpose is plain: Darth Baras wishes me dead. But you're here and he isn't. Your efforts to neutralize me are unnecessary."

"Oh?" but the word lacked its usual degree of arch superiority. It looked like we shared an idea: it would be better, if we could be sure it would last, to stuff Master Wyellett back into his icy tomb. That a pair of Sith should feel such a thing was telling.

Master Wyellett looked past Her Lordship and held out a hand, twitching his fingers at me. "Come, child. Your master brought you here to educate you, did she not? Some come, be educated."

Her Lordship flicked a wrist, the gesture imperious and reinforced through our bond: _come here and be as civil as you know how._

It was weird, as I pushed myself out of the snow, to know that the cave's stability was beginning to fail, but that we three Force-users didn't seem to be giving it the usual attention such a thing would warrant. I reached Her Lordship's side and bowed politely. "Master."

Master Wyellett chuckled indulgently, which made me uncomfortable. I'd expected his presence to be suffocating up close, but it wasn't any worse than it had been back where I'd knelt in the snow.

"Yes, unnecessary," Master Wyellett repeated, bring the conversation back on track. "I have no interest in continuing the fight against the Empire, or even the Sith. Buried here all this time, I have communed with the Force to the exclusion of all else. It moved through me, negating hunger, cold, fear. And as it moved through me, so I moved through it, learning its depths and heights, beginning to understand its greatest mysteries."

"Beginning?" Her Lordship asked.

"Your apprentice knows the answer," Master Wyellett answered indulgently, motioning with a gnarled finger. "Go on, young lady."

"The Jedi say a true master admits that he knows nothing," I responded.

Master Wyellett nodded approvingly. "Considering the depth and breadth of the Force, it surprises me more Sith haven't come to that conclusion. Or perhaps they have and simply do not require saying so." There was no derision, no scorn. The Sith were what they were, for better or for worse. "Sith, Jedi," he murmured. "All such delineations seem so petty in the face of the Force itself. But all things balance and one cannot exist without the other without risking greater woes." Master Wyellett got up again, casting his eyes to the ceiling. "I suspect I could defeat you and your apprentice quite handily. Even with your creature lurking about."

I'd forgotten Broonmark who, it seemed, engaged his stealth generator at some point and was now lurking as accused. I did notice, however, the imprint of Talz feet behind him, betraying his position.

"Return to your master, young Sith. Tell him I've been neutralized. I shall remain here for the rest of my days, communing with the Force, continuing my transcendence."

I bit my lip, glanced over at Her Lordship. She still looked unnerved, her expression strangely unguarded, but her grip on her lightsaber tightened fractionally.

Master Wyellett's eyes flicked to the tiny motion. "I shall either vanquish you, or the cavern will collapse. I shall return to my meditations but you… you're not there quite yet."

"You called out to Xerender. You brought him here to free you. I cannot take the risk of a similar occurrence in future," Her Lordship answered stiffly. "I'm sorry, Master Wyellett, but I must decline." She sounded genuinely upset by the answer she felt compelled to give… and uncertain she could back up her decision.

I expected Master Wyellett to compel her to leave; he could certainly do it. He didn't, however. He sighed, raised a hand, and Xerender's lightsaber flew into it. "I am sorry as well."

To my shock, he made the first move. Opening hostilities is something Jedi rarely do. In fact, not only did he open hostilities, he nearly took her main hand off at the wrist. The block she used to stop him was clumsy, as was the hasty retreat to put distance between them again.

It was only after the third or fourth time Master Wyellett endeavored to put himself in Her Lordship's blind spot, forcing her to spin and turn on _his_ terms instead of on her own that I realized I wasn't helping.

I leapt in only to find myself pushed gently back, just enough to make my swing fall short by a foot or so. A split-second later I had to jump back or risk tangling up Her Lordship. I staggered back, pulling the Force around me, thick folds of sweet invisibility.

Her Lordship yelped as Master Wyellett lifted a hand. She flew through the air and collided painfully with me, the both of us landing in a tangle of limbs. Both of us screamed as Master Wyellett threw Broonmark on top of the heap.

Her Lordship used the Force to push Broonmark off her and was on her feet before he landed. I, too, struggled to mine. This time, when Her Lordship went one way, I went the other.

Overhead, the cavern began to crack, rather than it previously ominous creaks. "It really is going to come down!" I yelped.

"You still have time to retreat," Master Wyellett answered, sounding quite calm, if a little winded. "You do not wish to kill me. I have no desire to kill you."

I gritted my teeth as Her Lordship hopped to a stop after another Force push repelled her. She was panting, sweat glazing her skin. Anger-smothering fear coiled around her in sickly tentacles, leaving me aware of how sick _I_ felt. It was the feeling of actually doing something _wrong_ , of knowing it, but of carrying on anyway.

Broonmark succeeded in slipping up behind Master Wyellett, but before the Talz could finish the trill before his deathblow, Master Wyellett gestured with one hand and sent the Talz slamming bodily into the wall. I didn't cry out for him, since I didn't feel the pop that signaled a death, but it was obvious Broonmark wasn't getting back up for this fight.

Chunks of ice began to fall, stalactites shattering on the ground.

Her Lordship took a knee with a snarl of rage and fear.

Master Wyellett looked up as the ceiling began to groan and crack under the pull of something other than gravity.

I leapt forward with a scream.

Master Wyellett looped me, and I screamed again, this time from pain. His lightsaber didn't cleave into me, but it connected solidly against my back, burning through my thermal suit.

Then Master Wyellett gasped.

Looking up from my belly-down position, I saw him standing there, transfixed, Her Lordship's lightsaber sticking through his middle.

Her Lordship yelped as if she'd been the one to take the blow. The blade vanished, letting Master Wyellett sink to the ground.

 _Her Lordship dropped her weapons._ Both weapons slipped from limp fingers as she staggered back, looking horrified at what she'd done, shocked that she'd actually succeeded.

"Why!?" she screamed, the sound clawing out of her throat. "By the Emperor, _why_?!"

"You… had a choice…" Master Wyellett said softly. "And now you know."

He didn't make a move to repair the damage, which it looked fatal.

"Know?" she looked truly lost.

When Wyelette spoke, his voice seemed to come more through the force than from his mouth. "What all your peers know: what it is to be crushed between your master's will and your own preferences. And what it feels like when the former wins in spite of the latter."

It never occurred to me that Her Lordship had never found herself compromised like that, never found herself caught between Baras' demands and something like genuine conscience. Sith apprentices all defer to their masters' wishes; that's just part of the way things are. It never occurred to me that it was something Her Lordship didn't share… until now.

It was an unpleasant lesson, especially for someone used to being above or insulated from such things. For all her power, for all her ability, Baras still has final say in what she does. For all her will, for all her ability to bring about and enforce the reality she wants, Baras' requirements still supersede hers. For the first time she felt, as all Sith apprentices do, under her master's boot.

What a pill to swallow.

"You could have stayed here," Her Lordship continued, agony in every word. "You could have stayed _here_ , been _safe_ …" Pain, the certainty that the galaxy was a diminished place because he chose to re-emerge _now_ , throbbed around her like a festering wound, masking the bitter dregs of realizing even _she_ still had a leash that could be yanked.

Master Wyellett really was dying; I could feel him slipping, the pressure he exerted easing by little degrees. The world blurred, but my tears weren't from pain and had nothing to do with Her Lordship's unpleasant revelations.

"You had… a choice," Master Wyellett repeated feebly. "There is no death." He raised a hand. "There is only the Force."

And with that, he pulled on the loosened ceiling, bringing it down on us.

 **Hoth, Part XI**

[ _—what does that mean, 'peanut butter?'_ ]

It was dark and cold. Master Wyellett's passing left no punctured air bubble in the Force. He was too much a part of it; it was more like the Force had wrinkled, then tugged the wrinkle out.

The Force shall set us free. There is no death, only the Force.

The two ending lines of two very different philosophies echoed and reverberated in my head. Strangely… they didn't seem contradictory. More like… the two separate sets of bars in written music. They exist separately, but neither exists more truly than when presented together.

But there was more to it… it was like he was telling Her Lordship something… or challenging her… or… I don't know. My head feels so funny…

[ _Your guess's as good as mine. Didn't tell me anything, just said to stand by in case something went wrong. She wasn't wrong._ ]

[ _Her Lordship rarely_ _is_ _._ ]

Everything felt hazy. Strange. And not just because Master Wyellett was gone.

[ _Wait, wait! I know this one!_ ]

I felt like I was limping out of a long, dark tunnel. My mind felt frozen, my body felt frozen. Something tugged me, but it was such a gentle tug and I didn't think it was enough to keep me going…

[ _Peanut butter, my lord! PEANUT BUTTER!_ ]

I gasped, eyes flashing open. The world didn't make sense for several moments. White shapes towered above me, the beams of torches lancing the darkness, casting a chemical green light everywhere. My head fell to the right.

"Their vitals are spiking." A figure knelt by Her Lordship, who sat with her back against a domed wall of snow. Her breathing was slow, but picking up.

Her mouth moved, words inaudible except for soft sibilants.

"My lord?" the voice belonged to the Captain.

Just behind him was a figure I recognized as Vette, of all people. Which was odd, since she was supposed to be on the _Astral Blight_.

"I'll always wake up… for peanut butter," Her Lordship slurred. Then, in a very firm tone. " _Peanut butter_."

It was a compulsion that could not be disobeyed. I gasped again and sat up as full consciousness slammed into me, like waking suddenly from a bad dream or a heavy sleep.

Broonmark groaned as he began panting off to one side. The soft sounds indicated he'd pushed himself out of a prone position.

On three sides were domed walls of snow, which suggested Her Lordship had dragged Broonmark and me to her, then used the Force to keep the collapse from smothering us.

'There is no death—there is only the Force.' It was how Master Wyellett survived as long as he did. It was how Her Lordship could save us.

"Be mindful—Jaesa is wounded."

"Of course, my lord." The Captain moved over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder to keep me still.

All around us, Imperials in white milled about. Pierce was distinguishable by his bulk.

"This isn't terribly bad. A little kolto, a dermal patch, and we can get her back to base," the Captain reported.

"Good." Her Lordship got unsteadily to her feet.

I let the Captain help me to my feet, studying her as I did so. On the ground, _peanut butter_ had been etched into the ice with a lightsaber, then smeared with blood to make the words show up more clearly.

It let me piece together what happened. The space was too small; we'd have suffocated before help arrived. So she put us, Broonmark and me, into a state of suspension tied to a wake-word. She'd then marked the wake-word where it couldn't be destroyed when they dug us out, then marked it again so it couldn't be missed. Even if the color didn't survive, a medscanner would pick up the traces. Once done, she put herself under, tied to the same wake-word.

There, in the dark, we waited. It wasn't like Master Wyellett's trance, but it saved our lives.

We were a very somber, silent party on the return journey. It was still more so once Her Lordship and I returned to the closet that served as our sleeping arrangements.

We'd destroyed a living treasure and nearly been killed. No one could call that a good day.

"Tomorrow," Her Lordship announced into the quiet, "We'll find Baras' lightsaber. Then be off this world as quickly as possible."

"Good. The sooner the better—I'm tired of being here." I didn't care how plaintive and petulant the words sounded.

I cried myself to sleep. Whatever threat he might have posed in the nebulous future, the galaxy was poorer for having lost Master Wyellett.


	36. Chapter 36

Author's Note: For those who are curious, Jaesa's experience (and Hella's) is related in _Rainmaker._

 **The First Steps**

The sands of Tatooine were brighter and hotter than I remembered them being. I could sense the slither of the Force, echoes of a shattered time covering the planet's surface.

Recalled to Dromund Kaas (and fairly certain she knew why—to kill Darth Vengean because there was no way Baras could or would do it himself) Her Lordship made sure I would be out from underfoot. This wasn't the sort of party an apprentice brought her apprentice to, after all. I was disappointed, but there was no point in airing this.

Master Wyellett's death left me in a good place to seek enlightenment, hence my plans to come to Tatooine—by private transport if necessary. Tatooine was also the most diametrically opposed environment to Hoth. I felt it would be good for my mindset. Dromund Kaas is rainy; I didn't think I could handle rain that fell like tears.

Repeating the Demon's Blood ritual was something I felt I had to do, and had for some time, if only to continue breaking away from my old life. I was something new and needed to see where my former self had walked… at least a little. Now, I felt I _really_ needed the comparison.

Her Lordship and I hadn't discussed Wyellett's death with one another, or anything connected to it. It should be noted that I found myself bouncing back from Master Wyellett's death rather more quickly than I expected. The impact had been profound, but like water disturbed by something big and heavy falling into it, I'd begun to settle out.

It turned out that Broonmark saved us some trouble: his hunt for Fetzellen hadn't been as inhibited by that storm as our hunt for Xerender. He'd come upon some of his former clan purchasing a Sith weapon from some salvagers. He'd killed his clansmen, killed the scavengers, and brought the weapon to be gifted to Her Lordship.

It was, after all, a Sith weapon.

So, as it was Baras' lost trinket, we were all off Hoth much faster than anticipated.

Her Lordship seemed to perk up a bit once we were no longer on that world, though she remained silent and somber—to the point of worrying the Captain and alarming poor Vette—for several days afterwards.

The same held true for me, but less than her since she was the one who struck the killing blow. I had the feeling that our whole survival and rescue was a kind of parting gift—an object lesson meant for Her Lordship. I hadn't asked and didn't plan to. I just didn't want to know.

Shaking myself, I regarded the end of the first stage of my journey. It began with a man named Izeebowe Jeef, one of those muddled strange hermits one sometimes comes across. Her Lordship started with him, describing him as remarkably insightful… but not Jedi or Sith. He heard but did not access the Force. A useful trait, to be sure, but a dangerous one… and Her Lordship felt that Jeef's abilities were restricted to Tatooine, if only because of the barriers in and expectations of his mind.

He was a small man, shriveled and desiccated—a trait shared by Tatooine's aged—but his eyes were bright and clear. "Come in, Dark One." His eyes skated over me. "As your master did before you."

"My master bade me give you her greetings and well-wishes. She also wished that I should come to hear your wisdom," I answered formally, kneeling across from him when he indicated I should do so.

"The sands whisper—you seek enlightenment. Be careful, young one: there is such a thing as knowing too much."

"And yet I am not who I was when last I was here. Surely that makes all the difference?"

Jeef studied me, head cocking to one side. "One might say that. What do you seek, Dark One?"

I considered. Enlightenment was the answer, and yet it was so broad, so vague. Arguably I'd found it the last time I was here—it simply wasn't the enlightenment I wanted. He's a hermit of the sands… and the planet speaks to him…

I recognized Her Lordship's style of consideration, rolling around facts and words. "Whatever the sands show me. Enlightenment doesn't necessarily mean something you want to know. "

Jeef nodded sagely. "You know the path to walk—and walk it you must. Skip no step. Perform the journey in earnest and you will find what you seek… though perhaps not in the shape you expect."

"Just as well," I answered. "As I maintain no expectations."

"Wise, on the whole." With this, Jeef's conversation took a turn, meandering and looping about like a dizzy ant. I listened patiently. Much of it sounded like rambling or nonsense… but nonsense doesn't necessarily mean it had no value. It simply meant nothing to me at the moment.

Jeef spoke until nightfall. "The suns have slipped away. Now is the time to make your journey, under the cover of night." Then with uncommon clarity, "For those with your faculties, symbols are important."

I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant… but the words stalled in my throat. It made sense. While a Jedi, I traveled under the sun. I made certain choices according to philosophy. And, I suspected, those events shaped what I brought to the Chamber of Visions.

Now was the time to bring new experiences as well as my new self. "Thank you, Master Jeef," I answered, bowing my head respectfully. "Your wisdom has proved beyond price."

The old man preened himself over this, then got up and went to his sleeping mat. "It is good for you to absorb wisdom when it is presented."

I withdrew into the darkness, aware of how fast the temperature was dropping.

Absorbing wisdom.

The words clarified something I'd been puzzling over for some time. I felt like I was advancing in my training, that my abilities were advancing, by leaps and bounds in ways they hadn't while I was a Padawan. It came to me, in the wake of Jeef's words, why this was: I _wanted_ to learn, I was _desperate_ to learn—not to match up to some ideal the Order preferred, but to absorb all the skills and lessons I could and turn them into something useful _to me_ , something tailored to my strengths rather than trying to tailor myself into being something else.

I found myself smiling as I set off into the darkness. Already enlightenment has come to me. It's a promising start.

 **Journey to the Chamber of Vision**

Although Her Lordship admitted to having killed the Sand Demon—regretfully, but with operational security in mind—I had no trouble believing another one would have moved in. How else could the Jedi of old have kept repeating the ritual? Even a Sand Demon has a set lifespan, regardless of a 'kill it, don't kill it' choice on the part of those undergoing the ritual.

Well, she certainly had killed it and another one had certainly moved back in. I remembered how to subdue it from my first visit… and found the exercise far less harrowing. The knowledge that I could have done it even without knowing the answer was bolstering. I felt my own strength of will as I looked into the thing's alien eyes, seeing only animal intellect behind them.

But for all my stature, I was a nastier predator than it was. In many ways I was its equal as much as its overmatch. The ideas had very primal undertones, the kind one finds in the truly old rituals (although I mostly drew this conclusion from things I'd heard about or studied, rather than actually performed). Symbols, as Jeef said, were important. It was for this reason that I ensured my arrival at the Sand People's complex would also take place during the hours of darkness.

Things happened exactly as they had the first time—though I thought they seemed a bit more agitated, as if they remembered me from before and sensed the change. Or maybe it was just upsetting to have three (actually two) ritual participants show up when the number of supplicants has been lower in previous years.

The characteristic of the map chamber had changed as well. The things I remembered most were how bright the chamber was during the day and the way the crystal marking my destination threw rainbows… even though it shouldn't have been able to.

Now, the chamber was full of an uncanny luminescence; the crystal marking my destination glowed faintly, as if slowly giving up the light it soaked up during the day. I could also feel the Force, because I knew what to look for. It hung in the chamber like cobwebs and dust, giving the place the sense of a forgotten room left to its own devices. Flat and tired, shivering, the Force moved in the chamber in a way it did not in the Sand People's complex.

The Force-users who'd come here over the centuries, millennia, left traces of themselves. They'd brought their weariness, the tiredness, the flat sense of being filthy and only getting filthier as time progressed. I reached out. To my surprise, I found a trace that could only be Master Yonlach… but the impression was of a much younger man. There was, also a trace of Her Lordship and a shadow that struck me as being the Captain.

I knew that there were others here, echoes and imprints… but they remained obscured to me because I didn't know them, or didn't know how to see them properly. It was enough that the experience in the map chamber was different from my first; I'd have liked to see the remembered masses, though. Just to see how many people have been here since the ritual's inception.

I turned and caught the ghostly echo of Nomen Karr, felt my lip curl.

…then I found the echo of myself, a frightened girl anticipatory of some great secret at the end of the journey. I reached out to touch the echo, but found that nothing happened. She was little more than a shadow, a sunbeam, something in existence but not something one could interact with.

I knew, even if I wouldn't be able to see it, that I would leave an imprint of what I was now to mingle with the rest.

Part of me wanted to rush, to hurry along to the end of the journey, eager to see what else—aside from myself—had changed.

I pushed the urge back, forcing myself to meditate for a time until I could feel the dust clogging my nose, the cobwebs gumming up my lungs, awareness of the countless echoes pressing close to me like people waiting at a transit hub. I soaked up the experience with patience and discipline, letting it mark me as I had marked it—something I hadn't done the last time I was here.

 **The Chamber of Vision**

The Chamber of Vision looked different at night, just as the map chamber had. The oasis was exactly as I remembered it, reeds edging it with determination. The water of the oasis and the life in the reeds both sustained by the accumulation of Force energy which did, as Her Lordship said, account for the heavy 'wetness' in the air. There were countless echoes here, too. Having picked echoes out at the map chamber, it was easier to see them now—in fact, they seemed strangely more real, each accompanied by his or her reflection.

Her Lordship, swathed in the Dark Side, stood next to a Jedi radiating the clearest light. I was reminded of something one of the other Padawans once pointed out—that the better the Jedi, the stronger the Sith if that Jedi fell. The Law of Opposites, she called it. Of course, she'd been a bit unorthodox to begin with, but she seemed to have hit the nail on the head, if what I saw here was any indication.

Nomen Karr stood next to a kind of doppelganger, the fine line he'd been walking at the time represented by the near-duplicate. It was hard to tell which was the original and which was the Reflection.

 _That_ , I thought sourly, ought to have given him a big clue.

Master Yonlach—much younger than I ever knew him, but still recognizable—wreathed in light, stood beside a ravaged, pale, hard-featured creature with etched lines in his face and around his eyes, the Dark Side boiling around him.

My reflection, who bore a strong resemblance to me as I was now, and my imprint with her, stood elsewhere. Light hung around my imprint, but like it was huddling close to her, unable to burn brightly. The Reflection did not have that problem, radiating darkness as easily as the sand outside lets go of its warmth after sundown.

I rubbed my throat, remembering the feeling of being forced underwater by too-solid hands, then gritted my teeth. I would _not_ be bested like that again. Not by _myself._ I felt more confident, though: I wasn't a scared little girl being hustled from place to place. I wasn't only stronger in the Force, I felt stronger as a person—a tree with roots.

And the Captain, standing back-to-back instead of side-to-side with an image of him as he might look had he been Sith. Pale and austere with red eyes, something in his reflection's posture, in the way he seemed to coldly survey the room, reminded me of Her Lordship, some indefinable aspect… and I realized just how much his being Sith would have poisoned any relationship the natural pull between them would have ended with. It was better that only one of them was Force sensitive.

Of course, the images vanished as soon as I tried to scrutinize them, my will being what drew them into existence but only to a degree. They weren't for me to investigate, merely to take note of. I could only assume that there was something in particular about the Captain that left his imprint and his reflection here. He is, after all, not Force sensitive.

The cavern was dim, lit by veins of crystal that had, when I was here last time, sent light dancing everywhere, like the crystal in the map chamber. Now, at night, they glowed softly, giving back the light they'd taken in during the day, allowing darkness to creep in. Watery patterns danced on the ceiling, each drip of water a sigh of relief—nighttime granted a reprieve from blinding sunlight and insane heat.

Which was when I noticed the room was much warmer than it should have been at this time; deserts get very cold very quickly once the sun goes down.

The Force was truly strong in this place. _How_ had I missed it before? It's so ridiculously, _painfully_ obvious.

I reached out with my awareness to check that I was very much alone—which I was—before stripping off my armor and leaving my lightsaber on the edge of the waters. I felt confident I could pull it to me before trouble happened. More to the point, that thought extended to any physical visitors I might receive while undergoing the ritual.

More the fool they if someone decided now was the time to attack and gummed this up for me.

Waist-deep, I knelt, letting the water close over my head, filling my ears. I let the breath run out before I stood up, shaking off water droplets as the sand and muck of my journey sheeted off unnaturally quickly, as if the oasis-bottom greedily pulled at it, like iron fillings drawn to a magnet.

"You came back."

The words were almost drowned by a shrill demand of, "How _could_ you!?"

I wiped the water out of my eyes to find myself faced by two reflections—the one I'd spoken to last time and the one conjured by this visit.

The Sith Reflection smirked at me wickedly. "I told you so."

The Jedi Reflection looked heartbroken. "You gave me up! For _her_!" She pointed accusingly at the Sith who, crossing her arms, stuck her tongue out at the Jedi before smirking again. "Why? Why would you do that?"

"I wouldn't be _used_ ," I answered. "I was tired of being _weak_."

"You're tired of being used," the Jedi sneered. "Do you really think your new master isn't using you?"

"Don't be stupid. She doesn't care about my gift."

"Are you so blind? She doesn't have to ask you to use it! You throw it at her head every chance you get!" the Jedi said. "She's got you brought so firmly to heel you'll never get out of lock step! Can't you see that?"

"Even if that rubbish were true, it's my choice one way or the other," I answered calmly, watching the Jedi's agitation and somewhat perplexed by it. Jedi are supposed to be calm, passionless, but this girl looked pushed to the brink, like she might break into agonized sobs at any moment. "And if it was true… well. It's more fun being in lock step with her than it was with Karr."

"That's _definitely_ true," the Sith remarked with a giggle.

The Jedi cast her a disgusted look, her cheeks turning faintly pink.

"You're not a reflection…" I breathed, studying her as the new idea dawned on me. "You're… myimprint… sort of."

"It doesn't make sense for you to have a new Reflection when both of us are already here," the Reflection observed. "So she gets recycled."

"That makes sense," I agreed, looking at the Imprint.

"She killed me," the Imprint lamented, though she shot the Reflection another baleful look. "She killed me and you _let_ her."

'She' had to be Her Lordship. "Was I truly that pathetic?"

"She's your Imprint. You tell me," the Reflection answered with a twitch of her shoulders. "But on to more important matters. You're coming along well—no expectations for this meeting. No need to fight, since you're not worried about who you are."

"You _should_ be," the Imprint said morosely. "She's turning you into a monster."

"One cannot make another being a monster without that being's consent—implicit or otherwise," I answered promptly, throwing something I'd heard with the Jedi back at her.

The Imprint winced.

"Here's a question for you," the Reflection said. "Why haven't you had a good look at that tin-faced twin-faced Darth? You know he's ready to turn on your master. Or the Captain? He's Baras' man."

"I didn't like the Captain when he was here," the Imprint said, shivering. "Too much doesn't show on the surface. You never know where you stand with a man like that. He could slip a stiletto between your precious master's ribs and she wouldn't know it until it was too late. Then what?"

"I don't know. I kind of liked him. He's none too fond of Baras… and good looking." The Reflection whistled her appreciation.

"Hey," I pointed warning at her. "Keep your mental mitts to yourself."

"Just saying," she responded with another shrug. "Her Lordship set us free," the Reflection indicated me and herself. "She's probably setting up something like that for him."

"That does sound likely," I agreed. "She's quite attached to him."

"One wouldn't think someone like her could feel something that complicated," the Imprint said snidely.

"I'm starting to understand why we fell—or jumped, as the case really is," I noted dryly.

The Imprint opened her mouth to argue, then flushed and looked away, crossing her arms as though to protect herself.

"So I should keep an eye on the Captain and see what I can see about Baras when opportunity presents itself," I said briskly, aware that the air—which had taken on a sense of being 'dry' during this conversation, was beginning to grow 'damp' again, which meant the conclave was nearly over.

"You're entering a time of treachery. Let's see if you serve this master better than the last one," the Reflection observed somberly.

"Or you could save yourself," the Imprint noted. "Yours is the last hand she would suspect. You could free yourself—"

"Because the Jedi would be _so_ happy to have us back," the Reflection sneered. "Your arguments get weaker and weaker. And now you're advocating treachery. What does _that_ tell you, dummy?"

"I owe Her Lordship everything," I said firmly. "Better I keep an eye on her Captain… although I hope you're both being pessimistic."

I blinked, found myself looking at nothing. When my eyes dropped to the water, I saw them there, the Imprint and the Reflection.

"It's a small comfort to know you aren't ready for treachery," the Imprint lamented.

"Be watchful. Baras' campaign to destroy your master has to start soon," the Reflection warned.

Then they were gone, the air was wet, the cavern dim, and I was alone except for the imprints and reflections of countless supplicants past.

I chose not to go straight back to Mos Ila—not that there was much to go back to. Rather, I mediated there, in the feeling of moist air and with the countless Reflections and Imprints, turning over and over the conversation I'd had, wringing out of it every last drop of meaning… as far as I could tell.


	37. Chapter 37

**On Vette**

Her Lordship anticipated her arrival back at Tatooine and left me a message, which I found once I turned my holocom back on, having finished my meditations.

Apparently, Vette and her sister had tracked down their mother who was here—which meant, as I calculated, Her Lordship would have been arriving while I was still crossing the desert. Thus, the _Astral Blight_ was at the spaceport when I arrived.

Vette and Her Lordship were both gone—I surmised Vette had insisted on Her Lordship's presence since Her Lordship made the reunion possible in the first place.

I passed the Captain leaving as I returned, looking preoccupied and a little worried as he headed out. He didn't seem in enough of a hurry to suggest that Her Lordship was injured.

Broonmark poked his head out of the small area—previously used for storage that had been cleared out (and the contents secreted here and there as possible)—he now occupied.

" _Sith-young back,_ " Broonmark observed.

"And glad of it," I responded.

" _Hot world unnatural. Be very glad._ " The Talz warbled approval, then withdrew to his cold-climate jury-rigged room.

I headed straight for the refresher and showered, washing away the grit and sand of my journey, resolving myself to speak with Her Lordship about the Captain's imprint. It seemed odd to me for it to be there, since he's not Force sensitive. Maybe because he's Force deaf. Did he see visions?

It also occurred to me that the imprints themselves would be a good phenomenon to discuss: I supposed she hadn't known anyone who had undergone the ritual, so it was unlikely she actually saw any of the echoes. It gave me a little thrill to have seen or gotten something out of the ritual that she hadn't, some 'secret' I could share with her.

Washed and redressed, I took myself to the cargo bay and began to stretch. Her Lordship maintains a rigorous schedule of calisthenics while shipboard and I'd begun to adhere to the repetitions of it more dedicatedly since Taris.

It hadn't occurred to me until I found my physical strength and endurance wanting: she works out to maintain a body already conditioned. I needed to gain the conditioning first and then could step back to a maintenance regimen.

Once I'd finished, and was thoroughly sweaty and feeling quite charged, I activated the practice droids, taking my stance as they raised blasters in my direction.

"Mind if I watch?" Pierce asked.

I'd felt him come up, so he didn't startle me. "If you like. Droids. Begin program Willsaam, Jaesa."

I flicked the first two bolts away, haphazardly, just to get the feel of the bolts, the lightsaber, the way they connected. It's like a sharpshooter sighting in before she fires in earnest. Since this was only training, the droids fired one at a time at neat intervals, allowing me to think and move without haste. The idea is, of course, to train the muscles so that they can repeat what they've learned at speed when needed.

I sank into the exercise, the little practice gongs Her Lordship had proudly dug up from somewhere pinging different notes based on where I put the bolt. I was still working on just getting the gongs to sound, so I didn't worry about the way the notes rose and dropped like a boat on a choppy ocean.

Fifty bolts later, I called it quits.

"Nice trick to have," Pierce noted, his expression cool. He'd been studying me, I decided, seeing if he could reduce the mysticism discussion of the Force almost always ends in into something a little more comprehensible for the non-Sensitive.

"It is," I answered smugly, eyeing the patina of carbon scoring on the gongs—which I would have to clean once they'd cooled down. Discipline in all things, which means cleaning up after oneself. I rolled my shoulders, then grinned at him. "Care to try your luck?"

"Pass—" Pierce began, chuckling softly as he held up a hand. He might have said more, except that the airlock hissed open.

"Jaesa?" the voice was the Captain's and it was tinged with urgency and some concern. "Jaesa!"

"I'm here," I answered, moving towards the sound.

The Captain looked harassed and had Vette slung across his shoulders in a medic's carry.

"Oh no…" I hurried over, touched her temple with my fingers. The pain was palpable, and seemed to sting my fingers—a high-pitched wail of agony muffled by a heavy wrap of induced sleep.

"She's fine," the Captain answered brusquely, barely pausing in his path to the dormitory. "Her Lordship merely sedated her."

I reached out for Her Lordship, found the bond between us stifled—but it was like a door with a fire behind it. I could feel the heat of anger. As if the touch was a cue, Her Lordship's command rippled across to me, giving me a brief peek at the inferno beyond the door.

 _Come to me._

I shivered; something had happened to truly upset her. Something that, perhaps, she could use to burn off the rest of Hoth.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I don't know," the Captain answered, adjusting Vette's weight as he tore open the curtain covering her bunk and nearly yanked the curtain rod off.

I reached out through the Force, pulling all her pillows out of the way. He would have had a job of it one-handed. Keeping Vette's _lekku_ out of the way without hurting her seemed to be causing him great difficulty.

"Her Lordship is expecting you."

"Yes."

The Captain checked, glancing back at me, then shook his head at 'Sith business.' He did not provide me a destination right away, but gently slipped Vette off his shoulders, settling her comfortably. Then, after a moment's critical study and once I'd wiggled her out of her boots and jacket, he tugged her blanket loose as best he could and pulled it into place. Although the motions were practical, it struck me as meaning something that he had bothered to concern himself with her comfort, that he'd handled her gently, that he hadn't simply flicked the blankets into place or with the negligence of a coroner covering a corpse. Heck, I suppose I wouldn't have expected him to bother with the blankets, or with tucking one of the pillows properly beneath her head.

A dark kind of disapproval etched his expression… but he was looking _through_ Vette, so I could only assume it was meant for whatever had happened.

"I thought you didn't like Vette."

The Captain gave me one of those disdaining expressions that meant someone had trod on a bit of sentiment peeking out from beneath his shroud of propriety.

I grinned at him with a shrug (that reminded me very much of my reflection).

"I _don't_ ," he answered primly. "But I don't like seeing her hurt, either," he finished in a softly quelling tone.

Wow. That's almost an affirmation of affection coming from him. "Good. Neither does Her Lordship. Neither do I, come to think of it," I continued musing, glancing at the sleeping Twi'lek. Her Lordship might have suppressed her into slumber, as she'd done on Hoth, or to Rathari, but Vette's sleep at this point was natural—so there wasn't much for Her Lordship to do.

Worn out with grief; whatever this is, and I can hazard a guess, just drained her right down.

"Her Lordship is waiting for you at a shop," the Captain began, detailing the place so I could find it easily.

I nodded, not pointing out that I could find her without directions. Before I could say anything—or finish digging my armor out of the bin under my bunk—Broonmark arrived. The Talz looked as though we'd woken him up, which was very likely the truth—he was still adjusting to shipboard time. " _We heard commotion,_ " the Talz said sleepily, then saw Vette. " _Is the youngling unwell?_ "

Someone would get a belly full of Talz claws if not. Too bad this is Tatooine—not a hospitable place to Talz (or anyone else, Talz in particular).

"Her Lordship and Jaesa are handling the matter," the Captain answered primly. He doesn't like Broonmark… afraid the beast might slit all our throats while we're asleep, I suspect. A good reason—and I wonder if Her Lordship has suggested it—for them to share quarters. Him and her, obviously, not him and Broonmark. Then he can assure himself of her safety _personally_.

The thought made me snicker softly as I dug out my work clothes and, without any sense of embarrassment, began to change out of my sweaty practice clothes. I'd forego to the greasepaint in favor of haste.

The Captain flicked first the privacy curtain, then the pretty ones Vette loves so much, closed before leaving the dormitory. It was weird, but that last little touch of shutting her away from the world made me wonder what kind of father he'd be.

I mothballed the thought.

It seemed strange to me that I was just fine changing clothes in front of three males as long as I could turn my back to them. At one point I'd have thrown a fit to get them out of the room so I could do so. Now… I don't know. Maybe I'd finally come to grips with myself and felt I had nothing to hide.

Besides, Broonmark isn't human, so he wouldn't be interested in a human girl the Captain is blind to any female but Her Lordship; and Pierce… well. His opinion is immaterial. Still, it's nice to be admired. I spent long enough beneath people's notice.

It didn't take long to dress, and I found Her Lordship quickly.

The door to the shop was locked, but opened at my knock to reveal a very distressed Twi'lek. "I'm looking for a Sith," I began.

" _Yes, the Dark Lord is here,_ " he answered in Huttese. " _She said to expect her apprentice…_ "

I entered the shop—the place was a tiny little hovel that stank of mechanical lubricants, overheated hoses, and sweaty sapient—to find Her Lordship kneeling in the middle of the open space in the room. I went and knelt before her, feeling the anger rippling around her, tugging at her control like a kite tugs at the one flying it.

She opened her eyes and regarded me. They looked somewhat redder than usual, not uncommon when she sunk deep into the depths of rage and indignation (which is really too weak a word).

"You wanted me, my lord?" I asked simply.

"Yes." She got to her feet, expression grim. "I'm inviting you to a bloodbath. And, make no mistake, I _want_ it bloody."

Bloody using lightsabers? That's a real trick.

The Twi'lek shivered where he stood, clearly not liking the Sith anywhere near him.

Her Lordship paused at the counter, setting a credit chit on it before passing into the Tatooine evening.

The Twi'lek mumbled something inaudible but respectful in the way of someone who doesn't know what to say and feels he must say _something_. I daresay it'll be some chunk of time before he touches that credit chit.

I felt my mouth twist into a smile, guts tightening in anticipation. Usually she insists on the professionalism of quick and clean. Someone must have done something naughty. I can't wait. "Does this have to do with Vette?"

"Here's a Sith lesson for you," Her Lordship responded. "Never allow an attack on your power base go unpunished. This Hutt has impaired my Twi'lek's function."

"Does he know that?" I asked, already knowing the answer. This wasn't her godfather all over again; it was less personal and more business. This wasn't Her Lordship on Taris, howling for Ferraire's blood; that was a threat, not a real action against people she cared—cares, in the case of the Captain—about. There was an undercurrent of being content to make Vette's revenge her job rather than letting the Twi'lek do it for herself. Vette is good in a fight but something like this? Murdering a Hutt because he did or allowed something that eventually caused her pain?

No. It wouldn't be good for her at all. Then she'd _really_ be impaired. It struck me as another deviation from the selfishness and egocentrism intrinsic to Sith. Her Lordship valued Vette… but not just as a pair of blasters or as someone handy to have around. You wouldn't think so just looking at them, but Her Lordship wouldn't go on a murder spree like the one she's got in mind for just anyone.

It seemed so strange to think of her entertaining a genuine affection (or something like it) for someone like Vette. The Captain, that makes sense. But Vette? It's probably best if I'm having that reaction. Anyone else, anyone who doesn't know her, would dismiss the notion as utterly impossible.

"No. But that's what comes of not. Being. Careful." Her Lordship carefully enunciated each word and, with each word, her aura grew darker and more concentrated.

Her Lordship needed no excuse to kill this Hutt; her excuse was for the benefit of those who might scent weakness. Still, the fact remained that she was bringing death to this Hutt because he had hurt that member of her crew who would feel the pain most acutely. Vette was far from helpless, but she was certainly the most fragile, the most easily hurt of those Her Lordship had taken into her service.

Vette's presence was, I knew but now _really knew_ , sentiment hidden beneath a shroud of practicality. This was why Her Lordship would react both violently and extremely in a situation like this.

I didn't miss that there was a minor fallacy in Her Lordship's reasoning… but if _I_ caught it there's no way she's not aware of it. I suppose that's why her immediate following is so small.

"I'm eager for this experience, my lord. The security Hutts keep is proverbial," I answered instead.

Her Lordship's smile showed a sadistic side she rarely exposed, and only exposed it to people she really truly trusted… or to the corpse she was about to make. "We'll see how it measures up to a Sith attack. Jaesa." Her smile was beautiful, as it usually was when indulging in revenge. "Let's send a message."

Which was license for me to be as messy as I wanted to be and the more so the better. "Is there anything I should bear in mind?" I asked sweetly.

Her Lordship's burning look was all the answer I needed—anyone not owned as property was bought and paid for. She didn't say anything, either, just continued along with me following close behind her.

For all her pragmatism and calculations, Her Lordship can be quite brutal when she needs to be… or _wants_ to be. I sometimes think she enjoys it all the more because she lets it show so rarely. I understand her reasons: unbridled bloodlust leads to insanity. She doesn't mind bloodthirsty but insanity is a weakness unforgivable in her books. It's the epitome of un-control.

 **On a Compass**

"My lord!" the door opened upon a dark figure with sun-bleached hair. Skinny rather than svelte, twiggy rather than athletic, I assumed this woman had to be Sharack Breev, the guide Her Lordship employed while searching for Yonlach. "This… is a surprise!"

"I require your aid again, Sharack," Her Lordship said simply.

"Of course, anything for Lord Baras' staunchest champion. Please, enter," she moved aside, allowing Her Lordship and I into the dwelling. Sparse and small, I had the impression Sharack didn't spend much time there. "I take it this is your apprentice, my lord?"

"Yes. This is Jaesa," Her Lordship answered.

"It is… an honor, my lord," she said cautiously, glancing from Her Lordship to me and back. I had the impression this wasn't the first time Sharack ever saw me. I had to wonder why that might be… but if Her Lordship underwent the Demon's Blood ritual to follow me, then it stands to reason this woman saw me at it when I did it the first time.

"I'm looking for someone, Sharack, and I require your aid in finding him."

"I shall be your compass," she answered proudly… though a bit uneasily. Nevertheless, respect etched every word. Her formal way of speaking sounded odd, but Her Lordship didn't seem to notice.

"I'm looking for Whuddle the Hutt."

Sharack's expression opened into crystal clear surprise. "…the Hutt, my lord? How could such a worm have drawn your notice?" She shook herself, realizing she'd just stepped on a Sith's toes—or would have, had Her Lordship been the touchy sort. "No, it isn't mine to be concerned with such reasons. Yes, I know where this Hutt makes his home." She looked me up and down. "Your intentions are not pacific…"

I don't think even she knew if it was a question or not.

"Tatooine can always get another Hutt. It is unnecessary that you follow or lead—simply tell me where the Hutt can be found and how I might get there," Her Lordship answered calmly.

Sharack shivered.

Again, Her Lordship pretended not to notice.

"I shall do as you ask… one Hutt is very like another," Sharack said cautiously.

"Thank you," Her Lordship answered as Sharack retreated to another room.

"Why is she so upset?" The mix of respect and fear was jangling.

"Because she went to see the aftermath of Yonlach's death instead of letting the sand swallow his corpse. She feels she was the hand that pointed the blaster… and has never been quite so instrumental in another sapient's death before. A Jedi he might have been, but she sent Death flying towards him all the same," Her Lordship answered. "And she just had to make it concrete by going to have a look."

It sounded like one of those many things in life which are just _complicated_.

Sharack was back in a moment with a piece of paper. "Here, my lord. Mos Ila. And here, the Hutt's palace…" Her hand shook a little as she traced her dark finger from one to the other.

"This is different Sharack," Her Lordship said soothingly.

"As you say: Tatooine can always get another Hutt," Sharack answered, seemingly shaking off some of her upset… some, but not even close to most.

"It's cooler at night. Let's bring Broonmark along, shall we?" Her Lordship asked me with a smile.

I beamed at her. Lightsabers cauterize as they cut. For 'bloody' Broonmark will be _perfect._

 **On Whuddle the Hutt**

Broonmark was excited by the prospect of a real bloodbath—the first one with Her Lordship he'd be indulging in. It wasn't surprising that his rather gauche bloodlust exceeded itself when Her Lordship explained that the Hutt should die by inches because he was responsible for Vette's upset.

She didn't say it _like that_ , but that was what I read into it, my perspective being what it was.

He approved; Hutt security was proverbial, after all. Broonmark—savage Talz or not—still felt some idea of clannishness and Vette was the youngest of 'Sith-clan', and the beast was bloodthirsty to begin with. These were all very good reasons to bring him along.

Whuddle the Hutt's palace—what a name! It sounds like a stuffed toy you'd find at a Nar Shaddaa bazaar!—was a sprawling complex, half built into the ground as many Tatooinan dwellings were.

"Leave the slaves alone, Broonmark. _No_ accidents," Her Lordship warned, pointing at him with her unignited lightsaber. The gesture was not overtly threatening—though I've seen her make it so—so the Talz merely warbled his deference to her instructions. "Good." She grinned at him before striding up to the front door. "One Lord Balanchine-Renault to see Whuddle the Hutt," she announced, when the intercom beeped.

I laughed softly, ignoring the refusal of entrance. Go ahead, make this even more fun…

I stopped laughing when Her Lordship merely gestured with her lightsabers at the door. There was a tremor in the Force before it abruptly twisted about her, like a fish suddenly gulping down an unfortunate insect. The door suddenly wrenched open, metal screaming and deforming when it couldn't withstand the assault.

"Wrong answer." Her lightsabers ignited as she stepped past the ruined portals. The beams, I noticed, were no longer the bright red of the original pair, but a coppery-red tone that somehow seemed to suit her a little better. I wasn't privy to her constructing the new weapons, so I assumed she'd messed with the focusing crystal to get the new color.

The only reason I could see her changing the color of her lightsaber is because Vengean is dead and she did it.

…symbols. Like Jeef said, apparently symbols—big or small—areimportant.

We met resistance almost immediately, and almost immediately that resistance found itself dead. If not by Her Lordship's lightsabers, or mine, then hewn into pieces by Broonmark… or they simply fell to some combination of vibroblade, claws, lightsabers, and lightning. Her Lordship wasn't snapping necks today.

The Force trembled around Her Lordship, as if she just barely had it under her control, as if it was her dearest wish to simply lash out in a way few people believed she could. I imagine she'd throw the inmates of the palace around like so many rag dolls until they ceases being rag dolls and ended up puddles of jelly. There was a morose sensation in the air around her, that hadn't been there when she fought the Sith at her godfather's funeral, or on Taris while running Ferraire down. This was colder, but no less malevolent.

I'm witnessing all sorts of things when it comes to the spectrum of anger. I never realized how broad it was.

We caught up with Whuddle the Hutt trying to make an escape, cold demands of Her Lordship from terrified slaves we met along the way guiding us. Fortunately, Hutts don't move fast, even when they're in a hurry.

"Whuddle the Hutt," Her Lordship's tone was like a judge's gavel signaling a death sentence.

The Hutt turned. " _The Sith! Kill her fast, fools!_ " he bellowed… or tried to. I think that was as close to squealing as a Hutt's vocal range could manage.

Broonmark appeared suddenly between the Hutt and his line of defenders. He was smart enough to know that Her Lordship wanted to kill the Hutt personally, so he contented himself with a flash of claws across the Hutt's flabby expanse before swiping out with his vibroblade at the half-turned guards.

It was done in seconds, the Hutt squealing as it tried to slink back.

Her Lordship lifted one lightsaber to indicate Broonmark and I should hold back.

" _What do you want?!_ " the Hutt shrieked (or so I imagine).

"Isn't that obvious? I want to kill you, fool."

" _Don't be stupid, Sith! I'm-I'm much more useful to you alive_!"

"I disagree." She paused in her progress, fiddling with one lightsaber, then the other. She watched Whuddle as she did it, watched the way his blood oozed viscously from Broonmark's claws marks.

I knew what she'd done during that moment of fiddling: she'd turned down the power settings. It was Windredd of Alderaan all over again—only this time I'd be there to watch her take someone apart out of sheer malice.

"You compromised one of my slaves, Hutt. It disrupts my operations… and my sunny disposition," she said softly. The rage and anger that had powered her to get here were cold-blooded and clear-headed… which was, in some ways, more frightening.

Or would have been, had I had any reason to fear her.

I kept my senses open in case more fighters came to the Hutt's defense, but I thought that—judging by the number of people we'd cut through—there was no one left. Those who survived had probably fled—no Hutt is worth crossing two Sith and a bloodthirsty Talz.

Broonmark did look truly ghastly by this point, all spattered in gore which seeped into his fur in spreading patterns, panting and growling as he was. I might have been a little afraid of him if I were the one fighting him.

The Hutt died badly. Not just that it was a protracted affair, but that he tried to bargain (which insulted Her Lordship), then to threaten Cartel retribution (she pointed out it was a bluff—if he was truly in with the Cartel he wouldn't be _here_ ), then to bargain again (which only angered her the more), then to simply try to buy his life (which disgusted us all). Eventually he was reduced to a puddle of blubbering blubber.

All the while, in the shadows behind us, in corridors leading towards the hallway in which we stood, were furtive presences. I could only imagine slaves of the house had come to see their master's downfall.

It was a disgusting affair, to watch the Hutt go from that pompous attitude they all seem to have to whining and begging like any sapient who falls into the hands and ill will of one stronger than they are.

Eventually she yielded and granted his last request—to just kill him and be done with it. But not until he'd lost the breath and will to keep begging. He was a step away from death by that point anyway.

Her Lordship stepped up to the dead Hutt and dragged her lightsaber across his tail, shearing off a piece about the size of her hand. She picked it up between two fingers, eyed it, then nodded to herself.

I had no doubt where that would end up: it would tell Vette, whenever she woke up, that the matter had been _dealt with_.

 **On Aftermath**

Breakfast was a rather sedate affair, as we arrived about half an hour before its usual time. The Captain and Pierce both were awake—and studiously ignoring one another—when we entered the ship, covered in sand, sweat, and gore.

"Is Vette still sleeping?" Her Lordship asked no one in particular.

"Yes, my lord," the Captain answered calmly, his neutral expression firmly in place… though his blue eyes roved over the still almost-pink green-spattered Broonmark.

"Tuvi." Her Lordship handed the droid a box wrapped in shiny pink paper with frilly gold ribbons—Vette likes bright colors. "Put this on the foot of Vette's bed. Broonmark, Jaesa, thank you for your assistance."

"My lord…" the Captain shifted uneasily. "Darth Baras called while you were out. He's recalling you to Dromund Kaas immediately."

"You should get mopped up first," I murmured to Broonmark, "you look so silly all pink as you are."

" _Sith-clan_ _is_ _pink enough,_ " the Talz chuckled before heading off.

Hydrogen peroxide is good for getting blood out… though I'm not sure we have enough to clean up a Talz of Broonmark's size.

"Already? How did he seem?" Her Lordship asked, frowning.

The Captain was silent for a moment. "As pleasant as he ever is."

"Ah…" Her Lordship breathed, a wry smile twisting her mouth. "Then take us to Dromund Kaas." She turned to me once the Captain marched off to comply. "Things are about to get _very_ interesting, Jaesa. We'll discuss it once we're all clean."

"Jaesa may make use of my shower, my lord," the Captain volunteered from the cockpit's entryway.

"That's very gracious of you, Captain. Thank you," I called, rolling my shoulders.

The Master and Apprentice suites on the _Astral Blight_ have real showers that can use real water. The rest of us normally make do with one sonic shower.

 **On Sith Maneuvers**

Once clean and dry, with our gear put in order, Her Lordship and I sat down to a late breakfast. "What do you think Darth Baras wants?" I asked, poking at my fruit-filled… well. It was a crust, but neither pie-like nor bread-like. The emphasis was on the fruit, even if Her Lordship poured a generous measure of cream onto hers.

She looked up at me, then smiled, clearly aware that I had several ideas and was asking for confirmation more than anything else. "Theorize."

"…assuming you were called back to Dromund Kaas to kill Darth Vengean…"

Her Lordship nodded. "I was also introduced to his other apprentice, Draahg." She didn't look thrilled by the acquaintanceship.

"Then Baras has taken, or will assume, Vengean's seat."

"Has, I believe."

I considered my plate. "He has to get rid of one of his apprentices. Then he only needs to watch his back for one of them. He'll destroy the most dangerous one—that's you. Because you're formidable, but also because you have me; he still fears what my gift could mean for him."

"Of a certainty," she answered, her expression started to darken as she sipped her tea.

"Do you think he'll try to murder you on Dromund Kaas?"

"Unlikely, but we can never be too careful. A conventional attack I could probably stop. He'll need something heavy-handed. Overkill. So now we begin a new kind of dance: how long before he can pull the ceiling down on my head?"

A tremor ran through her as she said this, undoubtedly thinking back to Master Wyellett and how he tried to kill us after telling her how she could escape… _if_ she was quick enough on the uptake. I do wonder if he expected her to save Broonmark and me or just herself.

"No. He'll put us in dangerous circumstances and wait for those circumstances to kill us. Something his hand won't be detected in. I'll be another dead apprentice whose reach exceeded her grasp." Suddenly, she chuckled, her eyes narrowing. "Except I won't. I refuse to be killed by that fat lump."

The conversation was interrupted by a shriek from the dormitory.

I tensed.

Her Lordship's cup hitched halfway to her mouth, but resumed its progress almost immediately.

Broonmark, the Captain, and Pierce all appeared in time to see Vette bounce out of the dormitory, looking shocked and more than a little disgusted. In one hand was a box; in the other hand was about a hand's length of a Hutt's tail, severed by a lightsaber.

Her Lordship suddenly smiled. "Let me be the dark force of retribution," she declared, apropos of nothing. "You just be Vette."

It was clear Vette didn't quite know what to think. It's one thing to have Her Lordship standing between her and a lot of the garbage that goes on in the Empire. It's another to wake up and realize that Her Lordship had committed mass slaughter for her… because how else was that chunk of Hutt going to end up here?

"We should all stick to what we're good at," I agreed, disappearing behind my own tea.

Warm approval rippled from Her Lordship.

"Right…" Vette said slowly, then gave a very unnerved titter. "Me and my buddies, the Sith…"

"And Broonmark, of course," Her Lordship indicated the Talz. "Credit where it's due."

"Thanks," she said softly, then hurried over to Broonmark who let her hug him, warbling soothingly to her as he patted her.

I glanced at Her Lordship, who was picking at her breakfast again. "We should continue this conversation."

"After breakfast," she answered in an undertone. "We'll retreat to my quarters."

Which meant it was the most private of private discussions. It also told me just how seriously I had to take everything from here on in. One wrong step…

At one time it would have scared me, terrified me, even. Now, I was with Her Lordship: I relished the challenge.

 **On Calculated Risks**

Her Lordship and I knelt on the floor of her quarters in silent introspection. "I'm not worried about Vette," I announced, opening the conversation.

"Nor am I," Her Lordship agreed, not opening her eyes.

"She has a good thing with you—protection, security. If she ends up on her own she'll just get into more trouble." Plus, Her Lordship found and freed Vette's sister; last night, she massacred a Hutt and his palace's inmates for her.

"Yes."

I nodded. "Pierce would lose a lot if he turned on you—and he's not fond of most authority. Baras wouldn't impress him—a puppet master tugging strings from shadows. That might be admirable, but not to a battering ram like Pierce. You get your hands dirty; you show him something he can respect." And Pierce is all about respect.

"True enough."

I considered Pierce for a few moments longer. "No, Pierce gains more from staying with you—especially if you continue rising." I changed the last wording when she cracked one orange eye open. It's not politic to say 'if you destroy your master' just yet. "Broonmark as well," I continued. "He intrigues with no one and even if he did, he'd do it poorly."

Her Lordship nodded. "Broonmark is a transparent sort. Too interested in killing and slaughter to allow for the patience of subversion. I've concretely demonstrated the superiority of my strength. Baras has not."

I bit my lip. The only crewman left was the Captain… and he was the only one I wasn't sure of. "Did you… know that the participants of the Demon's Blood ritual leave imprints of themselves in the map chamber and the Chamber of Vision?"

Her Lordship opened her eyes at this. It was certainly a strange and unpredicted track for the conversation to take. "I felt the presence of many supplicants past, but I didn't know they left visible imprints."

"Yes. I think there's a caveat—that you have to know a former supplicant to see them. Yonlach and Karr were there…"

She had closed her eyes again, but I knew not to be bothered by the lack of eye contact.

"You were there, too… as was the Captain."

"He would be," she nodded, unsurprised. "He underwent the ritual, start to finish."

I frowned at her, surprised by her lack of surprise. "I didn't think a non-Sensitive could participate in such a ritual. Not in any meaningful sense."

She smiled, catlike, and I knew I'd missed something. "What did you see of him?"

I shoved down my disgruntlement. "I saw him as he is," I answered with a shrug. "…and I saw him as if he were Sith."

"That makes sense."

" _Does_ it?" I asked sourly.

She opened her eyes, looking puzzled that I didn't understand. Then, the expression smoothed into realization. "Forgive me, Jaesa—I thought we were on the same page. Quinn is… a special case."

I scowled at her, and she laughed.

"No need for such dirty looks—although it is a good one, I must say."

"I've been practicing. He's non-Sensitive," I answered primly. "He shouldn't _be_ there."

"In this you are half correct—the non-Sensitive _wouldn't_ be able to finish the ritual in any meaningful sense," she agreed. "First, a moment to define a few terms. Those without a connection to the Force are non-Sensitive. Those with a connection are Force sensitive."

I nodded at this—that's just Basic Existence in the Galaxy 101.

"However, few things are truly back and white—and those things that are most often are of a philosophical or ideological nature. Many would contest this viewpoint, but I have seen it often enough to accept the truth." She paused, as though groping to bring the topic into a comprehensible shape. "A deaf man hears no sound. He may, however, feel the pressure waves that constitute what you and I would call sound under the correct circumstances. Many among the Sith and probably the Jedi use the term 'Force deaf' to describe a non-Sensitive."

Usually pejoratively.

"In reality, it is best used to describe the grey area in which dwell those who cannot use or truly sense the Force… but around whom the Force works. An unusually high number of 'gut feelings' that steer a man in the right direction? A little higher than usual accuracy or hand-eye coordination. The Force pushes against a faculty that never developed—and these Force-deaf are likely to produce Force sensitive offspring, should the Force run through a bloodline."

I considered this, the implications of it… "You think Baras does a lot of recruiting from this grey area."

"It's a grey area many within the Sith Order would prefer to pretend doesn't exist. But ask yourself: if the level of power varies so drastically among Sith—and, I assume, Jedi—then why should the scale not extend further? Pain beneath one's pain threshold still exists and even has physiological effects; I suppose this concept is not that dissimilar from what we are discussing."

I considered this. "He's always so concerned over being able to concentrate," I said slowly, "…it's not concentratingon his _work_ … he's trying to hear something outside his range. He just doesn't know that's what it is."

"Very good. Not always, but often enough." She gave a low chuckle. "He would have made a _magnificent_ Sith, I think."

Oh, just get him a floppy black robe, already…

…eh. Not thinking about that. _Really_ not thinking about that.

"As it is, he isn't, nor will he be. Hence, why you saw him there—he falls within the spectrum for 'meaningful involvement' in the Demon's Blood ritual."

I closed my eyes, chewing over this new information. It made sense… though I could see why it was beneficial for these Force-deaf to be largely ignored. They wouldn't make it twenty-four hours on Korriban. Best to keep them out of circulation, so to speak. But, like the military, they were a resource few Sith would tap. It didn't surprise me to discover that Baras had been doing so himself.

"Commander Rylon had a faculty for hiding himself, his true feelings, his truest emotions, anything that might compromise him—even to Force users; likely one would have to dig and _gouge_ truth out of him, thereby ruining the man himself. Sharack Breev will likely end up much as Izeebowe Jeef is now—the planet will 'speak' to her, the more she explores it; it's _why_ she explores as she does. Halidrell Setsyn… I never really got a read on her. Maybe her gift was just staying out of trouble. Maybe she really was non-Sensitive."

"And Commander Lanklyn?"

"Commander Lanklyn was an idiot," Her Lordship said derisively. "A convenient pawn, perhaps from earlier in Baras' career. I'm amazed he hung on as long as he did. No, there was nothing particularly special about Lanklyn. The man was fodder. Perhaps convenience. Nothing more."

I chuckled at this, then grew serious and jumped into the topic I'd rather avoid. "My lord… the Captain used to be Baras' man."

"And now he's mine… more or less," she answered smugly.

I frowned at her, biting the inside of my lip. "Are you… certain?"

Her Lordship opened her eyes again, studying me critically. Her silence answered the question: not completely, but completely enough not to introduce him to the airlock. Finally, "Quinn finds himself in a bad position. If he leaves—which he asked to do, while you were on Taris—it might protect me from anything he might be coerced into doing at the price of leaving himself open to Baras' displeasure for making himself useless."

That explains why she was so bent out of shape when she contacted me that time.

"If he stays—which he has decided to do—he knows he will be mistrusted by the rest of the crew, that his every step will be scrutinized whether he does anything to invite suspicion or not. However, he's safer from Baras' displeasure if he stays."

"…and he can decide for himself who to back," I answered cynically. "He can pick the winning side from a secure position."

"Perhaps."

"My lord… forgive me for saying so, but… you're not thinking about this." My blood ran cold as I stammered through this very relevant, very serious remark. There was a time when I would never have _dreamed_ of making such a comment to _anyone_ in authority over me. In this case, it was less impudence and more a genuine concern. I had so much to learn; the idea of being alone in the galaxy without her guiding presence? Not pleasant to contemplate.

" _Never_ waste a resource, Jaesa. And I won't waste Quinn—so to speak—before I know he's done something to deserve it."

I snorted at the double meaning of 'waste' in this context. "But you think he's loyal?"

"Oh, he's certainly _loyal_. Time will tell where that loyalty lies. In this instance, I'm content to take the risks involved."

I grit my teeth. She's _not_ thinking objectively…

"Oh, do think about this, Jaesa," Her Lordship said, her tone like fingers snapping for my attention. "You're not a fool."

I blinked, running back over the conversation and stretching it this way and that to try to find what she meant, aware that my silence began to elicit an ever deepening frown.

"If I keep Quinn," she said, still frowning, "I'll have a good idea whose hand is holding the dagger destined for my back. Get rid of him and Baras will find someone else—some random attacker I can't necessarily anticipate."

"But doesn't the Captain, being an object of suspicion, make him a _less_ useful assassin?" I asked. "Baras has to know you'd suspect the Captain."

"Not as a primary attacker, you're right. Quinn would be a last-minute thing. Besides…" Her Lordship grinned. "Baras also believes I'm not thinking with my head where the very good looking, highly intelligent Captain is concerned."

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I actually agree with Baras for once and it turned my stomach. "Adherence to expectation creates blind spots… and he's just arrogant enough to think he has you figured." …and didn't I feed him a line some time ago about Her Lordship's ridiculous and over-embellished infatuation with the Captain? And the Captain strikes me as the type who has previously been all about his career; it's all he had at the time.

Her Lordship inclined her head. "And soon we'll find out who has figured whom. That's Sith life, Jaesa: it's a series of calculated risks."

So why is she training me so thoroughly? Or is that another calculated risk—build me up but build me with a weakness, an emergency measure she can use if I were to rise up against her? I should be hurt at the thought, but I wasn't. My conscience was clear: she would never have need of anything like that with me, and if she never needs it I don't have to worry about its being there.

Part of me wanted to tell her she worried needlessly about me, that I would never _ever_ betray her, never aid those who would harm her—or the Captain or Vette. How could I, when I owe her my life, my happiness, and my freedom? No. In this, I will never be a proper Sith; I owe her too much to ever, _ever_ turn on her, no matter what I was offered or how I was threatened.

I wanted to tell her… but felt now might not be the time. "So we're playing chicken with Baras?"

"Very much so," Her Lordship agreed.

"Then I suppose we'll see how it goes," I answered, trying to sound calm and dismissive.

"Precisely."

"So… will you tell me, my lord, about this other apprentice of Baras? Drag, didn't you call him?" Sith are sometimes weird about their names. Her Lordship already told me about a 'Lord Vacuous.' Vacuous? As in hollow, vacant… empty-headed?

"I _could_ , but it's actually Draahg. The man's _insufferable_ ," she bit out, her expression contorting as if someone was holding bantha dung under her nose. "I spent one evening out with the man for form's sake and when I got home—by the Emperor!—I was ready to go back to _Hoth_."

I couldn't help it. She looked so ruffled and disgusted, like a wet bird fluffing its plumage, that I laughed. I did try to stifle it with my hand, but didn't have a lot of luck.

Her Lordship cast me a baleful glance. "Well might you laugh," she said delicately.

I dissolved into unmitigated laughter, which eventually earned a chuckle from her.

"I suppose it does sound a little ridiculous. I'm spoiled to Quinn. Perhaps it's not Draahg's fault he's so substandard. Simpler to pretend it is, however, and he was ridiculous." Her Lordship studied her fingernails. "But practically speaking, he pretends to be far nicer than he is. Talk with him for ten minutes and you can not only tell what kind of apprentice he is, you can also tell why Baras thinks him worth retaining."

"He's safer and predictable?" I ventured.

"Exactly. Draahg thinks he's clever. I think he was sounding me out to see if a quick double-cross was in the cards. Naturally, I didn't notice," she gave me a significant look, "but made it clear in various ways that I was the loyal lapdog and content with my lot in life. Baras will see Draahg's treachery coming a light year off. I'm dangerous since he doesn't know when I'll decide I'm ready to advance."

I'll say this for Her Lordship: she's not particularly ambitious. Like the Captain, she thinks towards something bigger than herself. It's just that pursuing this nets her all sorts of advantages and rewards. No one who didn't know her would think that so many good things coming her way weren't the result of a lot of work and bother.

"Then what _good_ is he?" I asked, sighing.

"He's powerful. But he's young too, and entirely too pleased with himself. He's handsome enough to be used to women smarming up to him."

It makes me wonder if he tried courting Her Lordship's attention. That would follow the general picture of him that she's painted.

"He thinks he's an alpha monster because he's never come up against anything to the contrary. I'll bet that's Baras' doing—let him think he's invincible, stronger than he is because he's got no reason not to believe it. Such a monstrous blind spot, so carefully cultivated. Draahg came to Baras young, I think, and never noticed the manipulation. He was still in a formative period."

I closed my eyes, relaxing in the darkness. "It sounds to me as though the Sith will lose a great player of the old games once Baras makes his move… and you retaliate."

"Oh, to be sure. It's almost a shame to expect him to be a casualty during this war—make no mistake, whatever his personal ambitions are, he's a man who measures greatness by victory. I intend to give him the game of his life before I kill him." She smiled at this, closing her eyes and bowing her head, clearly content to meditate on this game, this last series of great tests before Baras' reign ended.

Ended.

"My lord, if you kill Baras, that would logically make you his successor."

"I rather like the sound of Darth Phlegethon. I don't look forward to _that_ aspect however. Being a member of the Dark Council is a public proof of power, but it's _grossly_ limiting. I'd prefer to remain in the field for some time, yet. I'm sure there are ways to get out of it."

How many Sith would say something like that?

"Phlegethon?"

Her Lordship's smile was catlike. "The river of fire that plunges into the deepest, darkest part of the mythological underworld."

"Ah." I had to grin. It was certainly a well-selected preference to entertain.


	38. Chapter 38

**On Culture**

Baras hadn't called Her Lordship back to dispatch her—in any sense of the word. He simply wanted her on hand because things would begin moving quickly. As—Her Lordship paraphrased for me—war was Baras' goal, he had numerous plans that fell into place now that it had begun.

Since he kept her waiting, I was kept waiting, too. Waiting is never boring on Dromund Kaas.

I postured before my mirror, admiring the simple dusk-purple gown before buckling on the wide silver belt—strong enough to support the weight of my lightsaber, decorative enough for a black tie only affair—around my waist, noting how it added emphasis to otherwise slender hips. Tonight was educational, but for social circles not Sith ones.

Although there was some overlap, this was decidedly a cultural thing. I was excited: although not a great patroness of the arts (that is, she didn't have her own box at the Kaas City Opera House), Her Lordship did support them when they caught her fancy.

A knock at the door was followed by Magdalena, resplendent in rose red, her blonde hair extravagantly piled on top of her head and ornamented by a single pin or clip—a cluster of rubies the color of her dress and white plumes that mirrored those trimming the sheer coat-like wrap she wore. "Sorry to barge in, _dahling_ ," she declared.

Some people would find being called 'darling' condescending, but Magdalena somehow made it work. I knew her nature was similar to her daughter's—meaning she could be as kind as a scorpion and gentle as a razorblade—but she tended to keep that sheathed, like a sword, until it was needed. Most of the time, she gave the impression of being indulgent of others less capable than herself. A certain glitter in her eye when we sometimes spoke hinted it was less indulgence and more patiently waiting for me to prove my mettle as her daughter's protégé.

Not quite a granddaughter, but it would spare her some of those awkward infant moments.

"Not at all, Lady Renault."

"Such a sweet girl. I'm afraid you'll have to suffer through tonight with grandmama," she chuckled, sailing over to the mirror and examining herself, then me, in it.

"Oh?" That's… unexpected.

"Hella's charming Captain apparently took her up on a standing invitation." She beamed at this, an almost impish look. Perhaps she was glad her daughter was making eyes at _someone_ , or maybe she was glad the Captain was making eyes _back_. I have no idea what her family thinks about such personal details. But with Moff Thorne as one of Magdalena's closest friends, it wouldn't surprise me that Magdalena would endorse a match between her daughter and a non-Sensitive.

Well, Force deaf—not that Magdalena, I think, would appreciate the difference.

If anyone was to object, it would be Lord Augustine. It's like that in the Empire: people try to encourage Force sensitivity in bloodlines. It's not an exact science, but that's the thing. I've heard some rather nasty stories about non-Sensitive children in Force sensitive families and I don't think they're untrue. According to Her Lordship it shows a lack of patience and an overabundance of stupidity.

Then again, she would. She mentioned a Force deaf parent was likely to contribute to Force sensitive children _if_ the Force ran in a bloodline. Somehow… I couldn't see her disposing of a non-Sensitive child. Then again, look at her family (and her godfather). She assesses value on a different scale than the Empire as a whole. And she's too pragmatic to spend nine months working on a project just to scrap it.

It was an ugly line of thought, so I shook it off. Rather, I wondered what a child between her and the Captain would look like. Dark hair is a dominant gene, so probably brunette. I think her eyes must be fair, so fifty-fifty as to whether blue like the Captain's or green like Magdalena's. I like green, personally. I think Her Lordship would be pleased to be rid of the Renault jawline in her family.

The line of thought restored my humor. They'd be frightening if they had half her power and half his intellect. With a training curriculum cooked up by the Captain and Her Lordship… wow. That could be scary stuff.

"Ah." I didn't feel at all distressed or stood-up. I mean, good grief, he actually agreed to be seen in public with her. _That's_ going to cause some talk. "It's about time."

"Isn't it, though? So they're borrowing a friend's box and you're with me. Probably for the best; this play isn't meant to be dissected or hashed out real-time. Hopefully with the right company she can sit back and enjoy it rather than use it as a teaching tool." She finished adjusting her wrap, then pulled up the gossamer hood.

I grabbed my own matching wrap, slipped it on, and followed her out of the room.

 **On the Opera**

I'd never been to an opening night show, particularly not one of high society. It was a glittering sea of people, or rather glittering stones and expensive fabrics. Also strange hats, but I tried to ignore those for the most part. Nothing as objectionable as the one worn by that ridiculous Alderaanian fellow, so far.

I stayed close to Magdalena as she led us into the theater. She carved her way through the crowd like a boat through water, people parting for her not unlike they'd part for Her Lordship… only for different reasons.

The theater had the heavy stamp of Imperial construction on the outside. On the inside however, it was rich, plush, and comfortable. This was a theater for the upper crust, even on non-opening nights.

Magdalena led us to a box set high up, giving us a fantastic view of the stage as well as a good look at the house. The curtains weren't the classic red and gold I was accustomed to, but blue and silver.

"There she is," Magdalena announced, motioning with one hand.

I followed the line to see Her Lordship (easily visible because of her red hair) and the Captain in another box, lower down, on the opposite side of the room. Once seated, the Captain leaned over and engaged Her Lordship in what seemed the continuation of a particularly stimulating conversation. It was odd, since I'm used to seeing the staid Imperial aide in the field, and a reserved fellow aboard the _Blight_. Then again… I usually see them together at mealtimes, when there are two or three other people around.

I had the feeling, since I could tell her gown was a rich peacock blue-green, she was wearing the Captain's pendant. She measures value by that of sentiment.

"She loves this play," Magdalena observed. "Lord Andres really outdid himself with this one."

"She's mentioned him before."

"Yes. One of the few Sith over whom people would riot if he was murdered. An interesting way of cementing some security, don't you agree?" Magdalena asked with a chuckle.

"Oh, assuredly." I'd never thought of that, when puzzling over Sith Lords known for their works of art as opposed to anything I'd come to associate with Sith. The idea that people—presumably including Sith—would riot over his death was… strange and novel. Well, Her Lordship is always saying one should play one's strengths.

"There he is," she whispered, even though the lights didn't go down. "He's been playing the conductor for the play ever since it first premiered."

Lord Andres (attired in a suit and not as a Sith) heaved himself to sit on the apron of the stage, overlooking the orchestra pit, flipping through the score as if studying it. Slowly, while chattering among themselves, the orchestra began streaming in, carrying their instruments.

Once they were in place and tuning their instruments, the house lights went down. "Practice starts in a few minutes! Warm them up, would you?" someone off-stage called.

Lord Andres hopped off the stage, arranged his music on his stand then tapped his baton for attention. "Begin page four," he dictated, lifting his arms…

…and they were off, the process of transforming an empty stage into the venue the play would take place in unfolding for our collective benefit.

I'd never seen such background-type tasks actually incorporated into a production. Imagine, the crews actually being seen and recognized for their work!

 **On Pop Quizzes**

"Jaesa!"

"Hella!" Magdalena frowned as Her Lordship, with the Captain secure at her elbow (and looking mildly indulgent, relative to himself) sailed up. "You will _not_ ruin the play for Jaesa." It was just weird to see Her Lordship being scolded, however quietly it took place.

Her Lordship looked lovely in a sumptuous blue-green velvet similar to the blue-greens found in her suite at the Balanchine estate; it exposed her shoulders and collar bones, the sleeves slashed from wrist to shoulder (revealing the ubiquitous opera gloves). She also wore the Captain's pendant and a pair of earrings not of the same kind but which gave the impression of going with it. It just went to reinforce that Her Lordship measured the gift by its sentimental value rather than that of the market, which made it more valuable than anything anyone else here wore.

Her Lordship eyed her mother. "I had her come that she might be educated. Classical education is _grossly_ underrated."

"Then educate her when you get back to the house. Haven't you bored this poor young man enough that you've got to do it again to this poor girl?" Magdalena frowned, glancing at the Captain. Part of me wondered, as she regarded him, if he reminded her of her dead friend.

"Actually, my lady, it's been a stimulating evening," the Captain broke in politely. He was in his mess dress (this being a black-tie affair), pressed and spruce as ever. I did notice his eyes seemed a bit brighter, as if the gears and motors in his brain were running smoothly and at capacity. In fact, I don't think I'd ever seen him so fully engaged. It was a glimpse at what Her Lordship probably saw, and if I was any judge his conversation would probably be of the first class.

"Hmm," Magdalena hummed doubtfully, which coaxed a corner of the Captain's mouth to turn up as if he understood her doubt and found it amusing.

That was… odd. Strangely enough, he seemed more like a person than he usually did. Vette would have heart failure if she could see and hear this.

"Theme of the play?" Her Lordship asked.

"Obsession. _No one_ understands obsession like a Sith," I answered without thinking. "But I don't think he'll get the girl. Why not?"

"Crowd appeal. That's real life; this is theater," Her Lordship answered with a shrug.

I had to wonder of Her Lordship didn't have some things in common with the Phantasm and the Captain a few things with Christina. Her Lordship won't go crazy, though. She's too self-aware for that. Maybe things would have gone better for the Phantasm if he'd kept his cool.

"I also noticed his fatal flaw."

"Oh?" Her Lordship asked, arching her eyebrows.

"He's powerful, but _not_ charming," I answered demurely.

Her Lordship let out a bark of laughter, then covered her mouth with one hand to stifle her amusement. "That's very true."

Even Magdalena chuckled behind her fan, as if I'd said something particularly precocious of which she greatly approved. "I take it back: her education is coming along swimmingly, _dahling_."

"Naturally," Her Lordship responded, seeming to fluff up with pride.

 **On Reassignment**

I had four days of various social engagements with Her Lordship, which I mostly enjoyed. With the war winding up, a great many officers were being activated; no few of them came from prestigious families or married into them. So there were several farewell fetes at which Her Lordship (as Magdalena's daughter) put in an appearance.

Less interesting was that on the first day I got a good look at Lord Draahg, who turned up to 'pay his respects' to Her Lordship before shipping out. I sensed she would rather have avoided Lord Draahg if only because he grated on her nerves. If she was more intemperate she might have had to worry about killing him because he annoyed her too much.

Draahg _was_ a smarmy fellow. She hadn't lied when she said he was good-looking and powerful. Still, I thought he was a bit of an idiot.

He looked at her with the eyes of someone challenged… but who was, himself, deemed utterly unchallenging. I think it touched his pride in no positive way. Her Lordship did say he was used to having women throw themselves at him. Her dismissive attitude wouldn't sit well.

This accustomedness to being the center of feminine attention meant Draahg eventually shifted his attention to me when Her Lordship shook him off. He kept looking at me like I was some kind of dessert which left me in no sweet humor. Several times he tried to sidle me off to empty spots for a bit of unobserved conversation. I neatly avoided this, less because I thought he would try anything unpleasant and more because I'd rather listen to the Kashyyyk Life Day Choir on rickety old speakers than to whatever Draahg had in mind.

When I _looked_ at him, I found… well. He's not potent like my master, or clever like his master. He's brute force, average ambitions, slightly above average intelligence… all in all, a safe apprentice for a man like Baras. It was exactly as I projected when Her Lordship and I discussed calculated risks.

Oh, he was powerful, evil as any Sith you might run into down a dark alley, but very… mundane as far as Sith go. Perhaps I'm spoiled to high standards, but I could see why Her Lordship found his company tiresome at best.

More interesting was meeting General Rakton, with whom Her Lordship walked and talked for several laps around the room that particular entertainment was held in, and with whom she spent some half an hour more in deep conversation out on the covered balcony. It was definitely business; anyone who saw them would know that.

On the fifth day, Baras summoned Her Lordship; I went with her because no one said I shouldn't.

I was still uneasy about using my gift on him, in case he somehow perceived what I was doing. I ought to have done it while he was on holo back on Hoth, but I'd been… distracted.

Baras' office had been reduced to only the most immediate trappings; even then several crates waited to be filled. Apparently he was taking advantage of his promotion to the Dark Council to move to Korriban.

It was more defensible in some ways than staying here. It certainly put him closer to the throbbing heart of Sith power. It made a statement to be welcome and maintain offices there. It also put him in a position to survey the field of new Sith, to hand-pick new talent or pit acolytes against one another.

I was proud to have figured all these advantages and nuances before he even greeted Her Lordship.

"Ah, my apprentice."

Her Lordship bowed properly, while I took a knee, surprised at how second nature the social forms had become. And so quickly!

"You summoned me, my master?"

"Yes," Baras declared robustly.

I distrusted his enthusiasm; it was like he wanted us to get caught up in it. That's probably what it was, and at one point it would have worked on me. But I'd been with Her Lordship… months. Not yet a year, but definitely closer to eight months than to six.

I hadn't realized…

"The war has yet to reach fever pitch, which makes you and Lord Draahg invaluable. Strategic strikes by the two of you will leave critical machinations of the Republic crippled before they can support their own weight," Baras narrated. "You've been to Quesh, you know how important it is."

Then she went without me. I knew of the planet, but I'd never been there.

"I do, my master."

"Your contact there is Commander Ollien. He will be able to direct you on how best to secure the planet—and its resources—for the Empire."

My nerves tingled. Except for his enthusiasm, which could easily be genuine, nothing about this mission seemed out of place. I suppose that's part of a Sith power play: nothing looks out of place until it is. I expected trouble because Darth Vengean was dead, as were all Baras' loose ends… save one.

Draahg was a safe apprentice; Her Lordship was a rancor on a ribbon.

"I look forward to taking down a planet."

Baras chuckled. "I don't doubt it. Off you go—I've more awaiting you and time is short."

Her Lordship bowed again.

I ducked my head, not having risen from my kneeling position, then followed her out.

Neither of us said anything until we were out of the Citadel. "That man means to kill me," Her Lordship declared in an undertone.

"I'm in agreement. The question is how he means to go about it."

"That it is."

It was a silent and thoughtful trip back to the _Astral Blight_.

 **On Hidden Daggers**

Quesh was a noxious little world, useful only because the chemicals that poisoned it were used for battlefield adrenals (which is just gross). Now, a Sith rarely has need of such things and I was glad of it. There's a reason I don't like to know what's in the food I eat.

The place was so noxious that even Sith required an injection to mitigate the contaminants of the atmosphere. That injection not only burned like hot peppers in the capillary system but also needed to be renewed every eight to twelve hours. Whenever your eyesstarted feeling like they had pepper powder in them again meant the stuff had worn off.

Then the Imperial liaison suggested, just to be safe, wearing a breather on top of the injection. If asked, I'd have said 'go with the breather, let's forget the capsaicin in my bloodstream that wears off and needs to be rebooted.'

Ugh.

Commander Ollien, competent as he seemed, had way too much on his plate. So much that, even for a warzone, things seemed too busy. Not even the Captain, whom Her Lordship left with him, seemed able to streamline what was going on. The post, which handled communications planet-wide (as well as several other things), was small for being so important.

I'd never seen Her Lordship run ragged, but it seemed that an active warzone was not something either of us were really prepared for. At least the drain was all physical.

Missions began to bleed into one another until all I could see was a long track of blood we were leaving across Quesh with no apparent change in the conflict. It got so bad even Her Lordship lowered herself to using stims to keep awake and alert.

The Captain wasn't too happy about that or about the fact that Her Lordship seemed to be the only competent Sith Ollien had access to, or that Ollien's post was understaffed.

"You'd think they'd have the message by now," I yawned as Her Lordship and I climbed off our speeders.

"Why do you think they've resorted to _these_ tactics? They're on the ropes. They've got to be," she answered bitterly.

One can only hope.

A massive weapons depot was disintegrated the other day; it still smoked, casting a filmy veil of grey into the air to mingle with the red sky above. "I really hate it here," I announced morosely. The place was so hostile that both of us wore everyday tunics under our working clothes to limit the amount of flesh bared to Quesh's elements.

Did I say 'elements'? I meant _contaminants._

The Republic, it seemed, managed to find a cavern underneath Ollien's base. They planned to blow it up and thought they could do so unbeknownst to anyone. Unfortunately, someone, somewhere, somehow let something slip. So now Her Lordship and I were heading into the big, dark cave to put an end to this Republic nonsense.

Every step was accompanied by another notch of irritation. I had fine Quesh dirt in my boots; the grime was unpleasant between my toes. My hair was sweaty and stringy. My black clothes looked _rusty_. The tunic rubbed in all the wrong ways.

 _And_ my eyes had begun to burn, meaning _another_ dose of the anti-Quesh serum.

Dammit.

We arrived to find six Republic soldiers, wearing full helmets, clustered around several pieces of heavy-duty ordinance. I'd never seen bombs that big… not that I was accustomed to seeing bombs at all. Nevertheless, these looked huge, quite capable of disrupting the stability of the cavern and collapsing Ollien's little command post into the crater.

"—problem been solved?" one of the soldiers demanded. "Are we active?"

Her Lordship stopped, holding out an arm to check my progress. I was in a mood to just stomp up to these people, say 'boo!' then cut them all down before they knew what was what. Then maybe we could _leave_.

"Wait," she breathed.

I waited, trying not to let my irritation fizzle uselessly into the air; better to concentrate it so when the time for fighting arrived, I'd be ready and able. It was hard though, when I was so tired and uncomfortable. If this is a war… ugh. It's a rubbish one. Not what I expected. Not for Sith involvement, at least. You'd think half the stuff we've been doing for the past few days could be handled by regular ground pounders even if it might take them a little longer.

"Best guess is yes," another answered, rubbing his helmet as if accustomed to running his hand through his hair. "All systems _appear_ to be online."

"I don't like this," another said, crossing his arms. "Opportunity's great and all, but with this thing acting up—"

Her Lordship's expression was neutral; carved marble couldn't have been more impassive. It was no help in indicating what she might be thinking.

I've got a bad feeling about this…

"The detonator should be live," the second technician said, getting to his feet as he dusted off the knees of his uniform.

"Then let's—"

A sentry finally noticed us. "We've got company!"

The other five troopers turned, peeling off to take cover, weapons leveling at us.

Blaster bolts bounced off lightsabers. Arcs of color lingered with each swoop as Her Lordship and I made our way forward.

"I thought you said it was working!" one of the soldiers barked.

"It should be! There's no reason it shouldn't!"

Suddenly, Her Lordship pounced, hasty swings killing the four troopers who remained.

 _Go!_ The command tore across out bond so strongly I staggered several steps beck before thinking.

"My—" Dawning horror struck me, hot on the heels of confusion.

 _Run_! This time the threat of compulsion echoed. It occurred to me, too late, why she hadn't simply _told_ me to run: we were being observed.

I turned on my heel, just as her holocom chirruped.

"Draahg," she said blandly, as if having expected him. But I heard the weariness of someone who only just realized the minefield she'd walked into. Everything we'd been doing for the past several days, the whole running us ragged had been to distract her enough that she wouldn't see anything but another mile-marker in a long, hard slog across this poisoned world. "I see you've been eavesdropping."

" _Naturally_ ," Draahg answered in that high, trying-to-sound-cultured voice of his.

I hate him _so much_.

Her Lordship, on the holo as she was, didn't look away.

I began moving again, in spite of wanting to hear what Draahg had to say, jogging until I rounded a bend, saw the cavern entrance gleaming ahead of me.

Behind me a loud boom sounded, mingling with a scream partly rage, partly fear, all frustration at being duped when she'd been _looking_ for the trick. The sound suggested only a few charges actually exploded, meaning the outpost overhead might suffer damage but wouldn't actually crater as we'd feared it would had the 'Republic' succeeded.

The cavern began to crumble as the entrance bounced closer with every step. Pain, pure and unfiltered, seared across our bond—not enough to disrupt me, but enough to let me know Her Lordship was in an exceedingly, _excruciatingly,_ bad position, that she might not be able to get out of.

Suddenly, the connection between Her Lordship and I went silent. Not… not _severed_ just… as if she wasn't conscious anymore. But the pain was still there, a sense of seeping, leaking, slow outpouring…

I made it out as the tunnel behind me collapsed, hidden secondary charges sealing the tunnel behind me.

I backed away as the dust lingered at my feet, staring in horror at the rocky would-be tomb.

Numbly, I reached for my holocom. "Captain?"

" _My lord_?" the Captain asked, quite unperturbed. " _We've registered a subterraneous explosion, but the command post is undamaged._ "

So, I was right when I supposed the partial detonation wouldn't damage the outpost too badly. Now, it would look like Her Lordship died ensuring the safety of Imperial personnel. Baras' hands look clean and the war effort doesn't suffer.

Bastard.

I gazed at the tons and tons of rock separating Her Lordship from me. "Have Vette bring the _Blight_ around, Captain. Rig an excavation party, but come as quickly as you can."

Even over the holocom, the Captain went perceptibly pale. "…"

"…hurry."

 **Out of the Grave**

I watched the pile of rocks as the Captain and the others arrived, pouring out of the _Astral Blight_. I could only imagine what it took to get landing permission—unless the Captain intended to ask forgiveness on Her Lordship's behalf once we'd secured her.

She was so faint on the other side of our bond…

As the Captain regarded the pile of rock separating us from whatever space Her Lordship had to have created for herself, he looked truly at a loss. So much so that he opened his mouth as though to say something, but nothing came out. I'd never seen the man at a loss; the simple fact that he was undermined everyone else (with the possible exception of Broonmark).

Horror reflected in his eyes as he regarded the sheer amount of rock separating us— _him_ —from Her Lordship.

"Is there an excavation party?" I demanded.

"They'll follow once they've assembled. I started the process and left it with Commander Ollien," the Captain answered, shaking himself.

Ten to one Baras or Draahg will get ahold of the commander and find him some busy work. Orders he can't ignore, especially if the Captain didn't tell him why he needed the excavation crew.

I growled, reaching out through the Force to begin throwing chunks of rubble aside, reminding myself that A) size doesn't matter with the Force—the trick is making the mind accept this fact and B) things are less heavy in the water. Water is a big part of my visualization techniques. Heavier pieces of rock began prying themselves out of the massive pile sealing the tunnel leading to the cavern beyond.

It's so _typical_ of Baras, I seethed while trying not to consider how much rock there really was. Damn it all to the Void.

"Did you hear that?" the Captain asked abruptly, ceasing his efforts with a scanner to determine whether there were pockets of space that, in digging towards, would speed up progress by supplying space through which we didn't have to dig.

I caught it a second later than he did, as something suddenly clenched around all my internal organs, making breathing difficult, triggering a sort of ringing achiness in my head. There was no alteration in what I felt from Her Lordship across our bond, but it was definitely her presence. "That's… not a sound," I grated out, aware that I'd begun sweating profusely.

She was awake… but not really conscious.

For the Captain, all he had was the equivalent of sonic compressions for a deaf man. What it was, what it really was… was… _rage_. It was so big and so vast that the anger Her Lordship displayed over the death of her godfather seemed like a petty little tantrum in comparison; the howling for blood anger she treated Ferraire to was nothing more than one child running another down on the schoolyard. This was deep and dark, proof that she was sitting on _a lot_ of compounded anger, stored away for a rainy day. Now, it was suddenly let loose without restraint, which suggested she was badly hurt, too injured to _maintain_ her usual restraint. The Force followed the pull, smothering the area.

It was why I could sense she was alive, but only just: the rage was in the way, muffling her as it escaped. I'd seen this before with Master Wyellett: he was simply too massive to be perceived properly up close. Her Lordship's power had expanded incrementally until it was too much (though certainly not in Wyellett's league). In those minutes she _was_ rage, embodied it in a way I'd never imagined possible. And for the first time in a long time… she terrified me.

Suddenly the rocky obstruction trembled. Small stones began to levitate, then larger ones. The biggest boulders began to shake ominously.

"Get behind me!" I shouted, moving quickly and reaching out with the Force, ready to push back shrapnel.

Stones of larger and larger size continued to quake as if quivering with anger. Suddenly, everything burst outward with the force of a nuclear explosion. If the _Astral Blight_ had been anything other than a spacecraft—made to withstand the most hostile of hostile environments—I would have worried for it.

Dust and stone flew everywhere with the force of the explosion. Slowly, a humanoid figure staggered forward. Her movements were stiff and jerky, the Force roiled around her turbulent and uncontrolled but so strong. Rock dust and dirt coated her skin, mingling with sweat to form a sticky sort of glaze; her clothes were torn; blood flowed freely from rents in her flesh, thinning the sweat-dirt glaze. Bones were clearly broken. She shouldn't be walking; she should be lying somewhere, screaming in agony. She should be dying somewhere back there, trapped and unable to get out.

It was proof of just how ingrained, how innate her command of the Force really was: she didn't need to think about using it in order to use it to keep herself going. She wasn't going to die here; it was the only thought pounding in her head and she was a powerful Sith, powerful enough, exquisitely-trained enough, that _will_ was all it took. She didn't need to _think_ to make use of the power she possessed.

"…stars…" the Captain breathed, his words almost run over by Pierce's string of stunned profanities.

"Wait," I reached out, grabbing Vette by the back of her jacket to prevent her from going near Her Lordship. "She's not in her right mind." She didn't seem to be there when I reached for her. There was simply that sickening rage, undirected and overpowering because it was undirected.

By now, the Captain was in a muck sweat as Her Lordship's power beat against his deaf senses.

I was too, and shaking from the effort of withstanding the crushing force she exerted, a force of instinct alone which made it truly frightening. Take away true focus and will and _this_ was what came out instead.

Her eyed gleamed red, like actual burning coals in her head as she staggered forward. Suddenly, she stopped, then gasped.

The sustaining rage cut off like a severed holocall. Suddenly… I could sense her again, weakly but properly present. I couldn't tell if it was because she was so weak or because my senses for such things were simply ringing from the volume and power they'd been withstanding until this point.

"…Quinn?" With that whispered utterance—suggesting instinct used him as a reference point to guide her efforts to escape—she simply collapsed into a panting heap on the ground, strangled cries jerking out of her as rage left room for pain.

The Captain was beside her in seconds, straightening her limbs, smoothing back her hair and doing what he did best: acting with cool precision to ensure the safety of his commanding officer. When he'd done what he could he picked her up carefully to head at a brisk stalk towards the Astral Blight, the rest of us falling in.

Her Lordship was in some form of consciousness. Enough to struggle feebly, mumbling at the Captain as she tried to fend him off, even as he soothingly apologized to her. I didn't understand why he was apologizing or what he'd said that left her uttering a string of 'no' when the need to breathe or a sharp stab of pain didn't interrupt her.

It was sickening to hear, so much that I found myself covering my mouth with my hands. It was like being on one side of a closed door, listening to something awful, obscene, happen on the other side, unable to move or intervene.

When I moved to stand by the kolto tank, I could see that Her Lordship's expression was wracked, as if the Captain was betraying her on the deepest level. Silver glittered at her lower eyelids. Her lower lip trembled.

The Captain looked as though he was doing something utterly reprehensible as he set her in the kolto tank, then fought with her to get the breathing mask on. It showed how badly hurt, she was that all she could do was feebly struggle with her physical hands, twisting as best she could, as though keeping the breather off would stop him from putting her in the tank.

"I am sorry," the Captain said before standing up. He sealed the tank and immediately began pumping an aerosol sedative into the breather. Her Lordship took several shuddering breaths, then began to slacken. Her eyes glazed, but the heartfelt unhappy reproach remained, as if she couldn't _believe_ what he was doing to her.

Tears began to slip from increasingly glassy eyes.

I didn't miss that the Captain was looking everywhere but at her in that moment, as if he doubted his ability to stick to doing what was right in the face of this naked distress.

Her eyes closed, squeezed shut as the kolto began to pump into the tank. Across our bond echoed the sounds of lapping water, the impression of water/light patterns thrown against a blank ceiling… and a deep, dark terror at being _submerged_ in it.

Wouldn't Baras love to know that? Because it wasn't just fear, it was a true phobia. Exploitable.

And the Captain knew about it.

Suddenly her use of water metaphors as visualization aids made sense: being submerged terrifies her. Anger from terror, strength from weakness. She truly makes everything work for her.


	39. Chapter 39

**On Higher Powers**

I stood in the corner of the medbay, arms crossed, blotting myself out from the perceptions of others—in this case, from the Captain—while I kept vigil over Her Lordship. She'd looked such a fright by the time we got her back here. She didn't look much better now, her pale skin marred by black bruises. Her red hair and black robes fanned about her, undulated gently as she hung in suspension, bubbles occasionally tricking out from beneath her breather. She reminded me of some varieties of ornamental fish—all extravagant fins and frilly tails. Dark shadows of bruises, of lacerations still unhealed, gave her an odd sort of patchwork appearance.

I don't know how high a dosage of sedatives—probably transdermal now that the tank was full—the Captain had her on to keep her from waking up and cracking her way free from her aqueous prison—because she absolutely would—but I could tell it worried him. He kept checking her vitals every so often, as if to assure himself nothing was out of place.

Finally, hours after he'd put her into the tank, he put aside the datapad he'd been reading (or trying to) and walked over to the tank. With a deep exhale, he leaned against his brow against the cool surface, hands moving so they rested on a level with hers.

Suddenly, I felt like I was intruding. It was clear, as he moved his hands up the plastiglass, he was imagining smoothing them reassuringly up her arms. It wasn't like the Captain to give way to sentiment, but as he imagined himself to be alone…

"Hella, _please_ ," he whispered against the glass, which fogged gently in the warmth of his breath. Her name rolled off his tongue in a manner suggesting he didn't often use it… but rather liked it, the sound of it, the feel of it, the taste of it. There was an aching quality to it that closed my throat and made my eyes sting.

This extreme of injury was a real wakeup call for all of us, Her Lordship inclusive—or will be, when she wakes up.

I was about to leave, to give the poor man a few minutes alone, when the door hissed open. The Captain didn't seem to hear it…

…and through the door walked the two Sith I'd marked at Moff Thorne's funeral—one tall and athletic, the other small and slight. They walked right up to the Captain, standing one at either shoulder, peering past him into the tank.

He noticed absolutely nothing. It was eerie.

"Interest justified," the smaller one said in a vague way, sort of detached.

The Captain didn't give any indication he heard this any more than he heard them come in. As far as he knew, it was just him and Her Lordship.

"Indeed," the taller agreed, his voice deeper, calm and collected.

"We are not unobserved."

I remained where I was as the taller one turned. "You keep good watch, Apprentice," he noted, red eyes flicking over me from the crown of my head to the sole of my boot.

I didn't like them that close to the Captain (blind to our presences, deaf to our conversation) or Her Lordship (unable to fend for herself). "I do," I answered as calmly as I could.

"We will speak with this crew. You will arrange the matter. We will wait here until you have assembled them," the taller of the two declared.

My jaw clenched, fists balled, muscles tensed. There wasn't enough room to safely use my lightsaber in here. Too little space, plus the Captain in his state of ignorance. "I will _not_ leave Her Lordship in _this_ condition in _your_ presence," I answered as calmly as I could. My voice shook, though—whether with anger or fear, I wasn't certain.

The taller one looked displeased, but glanced at his companion who abandoned his study of Her Lordship in order to study me.

I glared at the slight one, bracing myself for trouble—

Then they were both gone. I blinked and they were _gone_.

I gasped as something cold—a single finger—touched the back of my neck. Gooseflesh shot along every inch of my skin. Chill pulsed through me with every heartbeat. The threat was palpable, amorphous and nebulous, but all too present, all too clear.

"We are the Emperor's Hand. I am Servant One. My companion is Servant Two. Assemble this crew," the deep voiced one announced from just behind my shoulder. "We will speak with them."

I could feel the power humming around him, a tight, restrained thing… with a dark undercurrent I'd never sensed or experienced before… like a window looking out into a black hole.

"Go Apprentice," came the soft voice of Servant Two from behind my other shoulder. "Call them." The finger was removed from my neck.

I swallowed hard, aware that Servant Two had not used a compulsion or mind trick. There was simply no room for disobedience. "Of course… my lords… I'll do so… i-immediately."

With that, I slipped out, leaving them alone in the room with the Captain and Her Lordship.

 **On the Emperor's Hand**

"We are the Emperor's Hand," Servant One announced. "Your master has been called into the Emperor's service. You are being informed of this to facilitate the process."

Not out of the goodness of his heart—his or the Emperor's, I suppose. In a better frame of mind, I might have cheered that Her Lordship had apparently rocketed to a position for which she was well-suited—a powerful Sith such as herself belongs in direct service to the Emperor. We'd already discussed how boring a seat on the Dark Council would be, given where her career is just now. This, though? This is going to be much more suited to her skills and strength—I can _feel_ it.

"With all due respect, my lord," the Captain began, tone tense and disbelieving, "we're still figuring out what happened to her. You will understand, I'm certain, our caution." He was just being tactful: he knew that Baras had betrayed her, but that was about all he knew. Things had been tense and, for once, he hadn't cared about details.

I frowned at him. Something in his aura seemed… not out of synch but… I don't know. No one else with the faculty seemed to have noticed, but there was something slightly lopsided, like it was out of balance. Now why…

"You know what happened," Servant One answered quellingly. "Darth Baras happened. What else could it have been?"

"The Betrayer has awakened the Wrath," Servant Two put in, almost nonsensically.

I shivered, as did everyone else. Wrath was a good word for what we'd seen Her Lordship display when she clawed her way out of that rubble tomb.

"Indeed. And it is our master's wrath which your lord will bring to Darth Baras. Your cooperation is expected." Servant One pinned the Captain with a look to freeze the very marrow.

The Captain held it as long as he could, then bowed his head; his aura rocked, like a boat caught on choppy water, but remained otherwise firm. Broonmark, Vette and Pierce were given the same treatment—but none took as long to fall in line as the Captain had. When it was my turn, I held out as long as I could, but I could feel the darkness behind Servant One, found myself watching it with sickened fascination.

"He's telling the truth," I announced without being asked. "I can sense… darkness… behind him. Darkness… and _will_. Without looking particularly hard. He is what he says, so it must be as he says. Her Lordship will agree."

"Very good," Servant One nodded, much like a teacher to a pupil who's given a correct answer but who has not exceeded expectation. "Your service to the Emperor's Wrath begins now. Ready yourselves. Ready your ship. When she has recovered we shall send her to you." He turned to enter the medbay, heavily implying that it was to be a crew-free zone henceforth.

The Captain looked ready to argue outright, pushed to it by circumstance. I'd never seen him so ready to set himself against any Sith, especially not Sith like these two.

"We would not wish to damage you prematurely, Captain," Servant One said darkly without turning around.

Her Lordship would go utterly berserk if they did.

"My lord," the Captain spoke with as much propriety and humility as possible given that he was edging towards outright defiance. "Her Lordship is being kept under heavy doses of sedatives. They _must_ be stepped down by personnel who know the process. Simply shutting down the tank at the end of the healing cycle will, in the best case scenario, impair her abilities far beyond the time expected after a proper step-down and shutdown. To facilitate your directives, my lord, I must resubmit my request to remain on premises and attend the matter myself. No one else here has the training to do it."

None of his personal concern for Her Lordship showed in his aura. Nothing. Not a hint. He might as well have been talking about me. That's… odd.

Servant One did not look happy.

Servant Two suddenly chuckled, an oddly childlike sound that made my skin tingle unpleasantly. He padded up to the Captain, studying the Imperial from all sides. The Captain remained ramrod straight, expression impassive as he focused on a spot on the wall, the better to avoid squirming under the scrutiny. He looked flash-frozen as he waited.

Suddenly, Servant Two chuckled again, after the fashion of someone who gets a joke no one else does. "We shall permit it."

"Very well," Servant One declared, nodding to the chamber where Her Lordship's tank was located. "You will inform us when the time comes."

"Yes, my lord," the Captain answered almost submissively. He had what he wanted; he wasn't about to put one more toe out of line. Wise on the whole—these two Servants are… can be… bad news.

Servant Two drifted off in the direction of the cargo bay that doubled as the training room. Servant One followed.

I exhaled slowly once the door shut behind them. The conversation revealed a great deal: namely that Servant One was the one who facilitated communication with the galaxy at large but Servant Two was the one to be deferred to. In essence, the vague one was the one in charge.

"Go, Captain," I said softly, touching his elbow as his concern for her as a person important to him reemerged. "Tend to Her Lordship. The Hand has spoken—we should begin preparing for what comes next."

It was enough. The Captain retreated back into the medbay. Pierce, Vette, and Broonmark likewise broke off and filtered off. I remained where I was, frowning bitterly at the holoterminal.

If the one time I saw Her Lordship truly angry was any indication… Baras might have bitten off more than he can chew. That isn't to say Her Lordship doesn't have her work cut out for her… but he'd better not let her get within striking distance.

Which makes it my responsibility to ensure that she does.

 **On the Emperor's Wrath**

We were still orbiting Quesh when the Captain brought Her Lordship out of the tank during the night cycle (to avoid disrupting the crew) several days later. During this time, the Hand rarely ventured out of the cargo bay. I was the only one to really see them and only because A) I kept a sharp eye out and B) because I was the one who delivered their meals.

Her Lordship looked awful, grotesque even. Her fair skin still bore many bruises and she moved with the characteristic stiffness of muscle that time in a kolto tank inevitably produced. There was anger behind her eyes, a thin-lipped tension that coupled uncomfortably with single-minded purpose. Some of it might have been over the fact that Baras really did manage to put one over on her, but I thought it was simply a deep-seated sense of offense that he not only used such a thuggish method, but that it was _sloppy_.

Which meant it was Draahg's plan and not Baras' actual brainchild at all. I suppose she couldn't complain, since the sloppiness let her survive but at the same time… well. It was a little insulting to think that the most certain plan was 'drop a mountain on her head and let the rubble be her tomb.'

She said nothing as she exited the medbay, the Captain at her shoulder. In fact, she positioned herself at the holoterminal and waited in silent expectation.

"My l—" the Captain began. Again, his aura was purely professional, anything personal so perfectly hidden it surprised me. Has he always been like that? I didn't think so.

Her Lordship held up a hand for silence and continued waiting.

She knows the Hand is here, somewhere. I'll bet they've stolen in, else she would have gone to them. That she didn't make some kind of prompting demand spoke loudly: they were something she meant to treat with caution. So we all waited in silence for several long moments—long enough for Her Lordship to clamp down even further on her emotions, leaving her in a state of calm readiness.

Then they were there, making the Captain tense. I saw the effort it took for him to stay where he was, to make no movement that could be perceived as defensive of Her Lordship. Nothing that might betray anything more than professional concern.

It occurred to me that as the only Force user here who knew him (barring Her Lordship), it was unlikely anyone else would perceive the dissonance in him I did.

Servant One stood with his hands folded behind his back, surveying Her Lordship thoughtfully.

Servant Two regarded her with a birdlike caution, mouth twisted into an anticipatory smile. A strange light, not insanity but something like it, glittered in his eyes.

Her Lordship didn't seem surprised, didn't seem curious as to who they were. Maybe there'd been some weird communication while she was in the tank.

"We are impressed," Servant One finally declared.

"So I gathered," Her Lordship answered simply. "I sense your nature. What could you possibly want with me?"

"The Emperor has called you into service," Servant One answered nonchalantly, the tone one uses to say (without saying) 'it's none of my business what he thinks or what he chooses to do.'

In the Republic, the Emperor is seen as a despot ruling from Dromund Kaas with an iron fist and an insatiable lust for conquest. The Jedi believe he's… more. Ancient, evil, perhaps even irredeemable (and that by _their_ standards).

"And how may I serve our supreme master?"

In the Empire, the Emperor is something that lurks in the back of the mind, not quite mythic, not a direct influence… but his hand is over his Empire. The Sith are the ones who respect him almost as a living deity. I say 'almost' because there's no worship involved, but he's the pinnacle of their Order and so far above even the Dark Council that he's something quite apart from the Sith Order.

"You are to become his Wrath."

Servant Two chuckled, an eerie sound that made all the hairs on my body stand up. "We sampled the Wrath some time ago, did we not?" He directed the question at me, his head rolling on his neck rather than simply turning his face.

"They were watching at Moff Thorne's funeral," I confirmed. "I was going to point them out to you, once you finished with Grathan's men, but they disappeared and…" I shook my head, feeling disgusted with myself. "I forgot."

Her Lordship simply nodded. Maybe it's not surprising that I forgot, either because of events… or because I was made to forget.

"We witnessed your display on Quesh," Servant One agreed. "Our supreme master is pleased with your resilience."

"I'm honored." It said something that she didn't prompt them to get to the point.

"The Dark Council runs blind. Baras seizes power against the Emperor's wishes," Servant One declared, his voice dropping an octave as his expression clouded at the gall, the audacity, of Baras' arrogance. One doesn't cross the Emperor, which tells me something is very wrong in the Empire's power structure, something not widely known.

"I knew he'd overstep his bounds one of these days." A smile, cruel and catlike, suffused Her Lordship's tone, rippling gently across our bond. "I take it our supreme master wishes me to rectify this issue?" She seemed to resonate with the hope of it.

Servant Two smiled that barely-lucid smile. "The Wrath anticipates the Hand. And the Betrayer has motivated the Wrath."

"Permit me, but how is it that Baras can defy our supreme master in this fashion?"

Exactly _my_ question. I mean, the Emperor pretty much _is_ the Empire. Of all Sith, I thought he was the one that was unassailable. From what I understand it really has been one man on the throne for a thousand years or more, not a series of men wearing the same mask and mantle to hide the fact that identity changes.

"Since the Treaty of Coruscant, the Emperor has… withdrawn… from the known galaxy. He is preparing for a great undertaking. Baras learned of this," Servant One answered.

"He really does seem to have eyes and ears everywhere," Her Lordship responded with disgust. "He told me as much once, but I didn't think his reach extended _quite_ so far. I'm almost impressed."

Not that it raises him in her estimations, but to put people _that_ close to the Emperor without them being detected? Scary stuff.

"Nor did we," Servant One agreed darkly. "Now, Baras claims to be the Emperor's Voice, that the Emperor speaks though him. The Emperor does indeed employ one being to physically embody—the Voice. If the Dark Council upholds Baras' claim, he will have supreme power, obeyed as if he were the Emperor himself."

…the _Voice_ of the Emperor? That's… new. It's also _really_ scary stuff. Her Lordship can't fight everyone; if Baras, in the capacity of Voice, found out she was alive he'd have the whole Empire after her. Even without that capacity… it makes things _very_ dangerous for her.

"Best if we don't let it get that far. Has he killed the true Voice?"

"The Voice has been _silenced_ ," Servant Two interposed mournfully… but there was anger under his tone.

"Not at all. If he had, the Emperor's essence would have been freed, another Voice chosen and installed," Servant One answered. "Baras would have been unable to propagate such a lie."

"So I must find the Voice? Rescue him?"

"We will find the Voice. Meanwhile, you will apply yourself to tearing down Baras' power structure," Servant One corrected.

Her Lordship chuckled with anticipation. "That's a task much to my liking. Tell me, how does the Dark Council see this claim?"

Servant One shrugged. "Some truly believe. Others smell profit, an advantage in supporting him." So much the worse for them, now that the Emperor has an agent with a mandate to fix things running around. Too bad none of them will actually commit in a way that could backfire on them. Sith are slippery like that; I imagine the members of the Dark Council have perfected the art of slipperiness.

"And Baras is undoubtedly plotting against the dissenters," Her Lordship said rather than asked.

"Indeed. But concern for their welfare comes—"

"The Wrath must build before reaching pitch," Servant Two cut in dreamily.

"As of now, you have the advantage of Baras believing you are dead. Your Captain has already apprised Baras of the explosion and indicated you are…"

"Such _lies_ ," Servant Two announced, mouth twisting. I couldn't tell if it was a hiss of condemnation or a purr of amusement.

Apparently I wasn't the only one who wasn't sure: the Captain shifted uneasily where he stood, his aura shivering.

"…unaccounted for," Servant One finished, unperturbed.

"Then it's best if we hurry. Quinn can only maintain that fiction for so long before Baras gets wind of it," Her Lordship frowned. "Where am I to go?"

The Hand smiled grimly at Her Lordship who, I don't doubt, smiled back. These were people who got things done, and they had a lot to do. No sense wasting time. "For now, return us to Quesh. Then leave the system and wait for our call," Servant one declared. "Be ready."

Here Lordship bowed her head.

The Hand swept out of the room, back to the cargo bay.

"You heard them," Her Lordship said simply. "Take us down, Quinn."

 **On Altered Status Quo**

Things persisted in a state of forced calm and flattened auras until the Hand was successfully offloaded, and the Captain had us heading… somewhere.

Vette looked nauseated. Pierce didn't seem to care one way or the other. Broonmark… well. He didn't care about Sith politics, just about the opportunity to whet his claws.

"Are you sure you want to trust these Hand weirdoes?" Vette asked, her mouth twisting unhappily. "They sound kinda sketchy to me. Like, _really_ sketchy."

"It's necessary," Her Lordship answered. She refused to show any weakness during her interview with the Hand, but now she looked exhausted, limp with fatigue and probably residual pain. "My old master has finally become my new enemy." She exhaled softly, then leaned against the Captain, who put an arm around her shoulders.

The Captain sat protectively beside her after he'd retrieved a warm wrap from her quarters and snapped at Tuvi to make her a big mug of hot black caf. His aura churned darkly, murky with displeasure and concern, strangely occluded.

Vette nodded, hugging herself as she muttered 'I'll update my scorecard.'

"How long have you know about them?" the Captain asked, frowning at me. Doubtless he was looking for some Sith intrigue, apprentice versus master.

If he only knew what I was looking for about him.

"I've seen them once before, at Moff Thorne's funeral. You're the one who should be worried: they and I had a whole conversation while you were overseeing Her Lordship in the tank." Her Lordship shuddered involuntarily. "They could have blown in your ear they were so close," I answered.

This seemed to unnerve the Captain, who isn't easily unnerved.

"They do belong to the Emperor," Her Lordship stated. "I… sensed… his presence behind them. Like smoke indicates fire."

"What I want to know is does it matter?" Pierce asked bluntly. "Never liked old man Baras anyway. Knew this was coming sooner or later. What's it matter who's backing it? Point me in the right direction m'lord." He nodded for emphasis.

"Your concern right now is taking the Bastion," Her Lordship answered.

"War broke out proper on Corellia this morning. Both sides finally got their cannoks in a row and got boots on the ground. Strategic target; surprised we didn't have people there sooner," Pierce answered promptly.

"The Bastion?" the Captain arched his eyebrows.

"Jealous, Captain?" Pierce grinned.

"Hardly. I do concern myself that it might reflect poorly on Her Lordship if you fail."

Ooh, seems like the time has come for venting stress.

Her Lordship ceased to lean on the Captain, opting to slouch in her seat, considering the two men.

"And what do you mean by that?" Pierce demanded.

To my left, Vette whispered to Broonmark, "Come on; the important stuff's done if they're doing this. They can argue this stuff for hours."

" _Sith-clan thrives on words. We think better to kill enemies._ " But the Talz went with her.

"I mean that even if you _take_ it, you'll never _hold_ it," the Captain answered.

"You're wrong," Pierce answered flatly. "But it's not Black Ops' job to hold it. Just to knock it over. Once our ground pounders get in there, the Republic's shut out. Her Lordship's name's on taking it, not holding it."

"And how is that coming, by the way?" Her Lordship interposed.

"Tanido's got everything ready on his end. Can't wait to get off that ice cube. Looking to impress you—don't worry," Pierce interrupted himself. "He's not gonna ruin things to do it. He's not another Hurdenn, just proud."

"And he wants off Hoth," Her Lordship added.

"Who wouldn't?" I muttered, earning rueful amusement from all quarters.

"You need more than weapons. For the main assault, you need troops. That's Laurent's job— _Captain_ Laurent, I should say," he grimaced.

"Capt. Danielle Laurent?" the Captain asked, his eyebrows arching.

"That's her." Pierce sounded surprised.

"Not on good terms?" Her Lordship asked archly. Some might ask if this was a twinge of jealousy, but I knew better. Her Lordship doesn't get jealous.

"She's efficient enough," the Captain answered delicately. "Good at tugging out wrinkles—in plans and in brows."

"What the Captain means is that connections got her a spot on Balmorra. She was a favorite of Moff Galven. Spent an evening with him as a Lieutenant. By morning, she was a captain," Pierce announced.

Both men looked disapproving, each after his own fashion, so this wasn't news to the Captain.

Her Lordship also grimaced.

"Point is, Laurent could get us an army out of him if she had a mind," Pierce finished.

"And you think she can convince the man?" Her Lordship asked dubiously.

"With the right favors."

I made a mental note: that kind of currency can come back to bite you.

"I see. And you're in contact with her?"

"Been putting her off while you were, uh… well. Feeling a bit under the weather." He finished so lamely, since the topic was so touchy. "Can get her on the comm any time you like."

Her Lordship got up from the table. "There's no time like the present, Pierce."

Pierce grinned and stalked over to the holoterminal.

"Consider for the future, what kind of trouble even one use of _that_ kind of currency can cause," Her Lordship murmured unsympathetically to me.

It might have bothered her to send Lady Renata of Alderaan to Duke Kendoh, but it clearly wouldn't bother her to see Laurent buying an army for this assault. Sometimes Her Lordship's code of conduct is so complex.

Carefully, I poked at her through our bond. Bone-weariness, effort to repress trembles of exertion. She wasn't nearly as well as she made herself seem. Even with the worst damage healed she _hurt_ , she was _tired_ , but the day wasn't done. It was beneath her to show the weakness threatening to tear itself into the open… but all she really wanted was to get something easy and quick to eat, then go to bed, the Captain curled comfortingly beside her.

The channel connected almost immediately, revealing a pretty woman with a serious expression. She jumped right in without mincing words. " _There has to be another way, Pierce. Moff Galven has resources but what you want is impossible._ "

"Impossible?" Pierce asked.

Laurent glared at him, her lips thinning. There was such an air of competence about her that left me with the distinct impression she could have climbed through the ranks in the normal way… so it puzzled me why she hadn't, thereby saving herself a lot of trouble.

I crossed my arms, sinking my weight into one hip as I studied her.

Even over the holo, Laurent's face darkened. " _The favors I would—no. It's above and beyond the call of duty,_ " she said firmly, unconsciously wrapping her arms about herself..

"Never stopped you before, _Captain_ ," Pierce grunted.

Laurent's expression could have stopped a train. " _The old man is_ _depraved_ _, and the years have_ _not_ _been kind to him._ "

"Surely this Moff wasn't your first promotion," Her Lordship declared nonchalantly. Almost callously.

Sith or not, Laurent's look at Her Lordship was sharp, her expression twisting. " _It was a young woman's mistake, my lord,_ " she grated out. " _The others were_ _all_ _well-earned, as befits any_ _good_ _Imperial officer._ " In the wake of her clipped reply, her jaw jutted pugnaciously.

I had to wonder if that was a jab at the Captain. As he didn't seem to notice, I decided it wasn't. What I did notice were unusual emanations from him. His aura is usually so quiet; now, though, I could feel blatant concern reaching out towards Her Lordship as he kept a sharp eye on her. If she started to tremble, if she blanched, he'd be there to intercede with her to respect her own best interests.

I remembered the raw, visceral tone: ' _Hella,_ _please_ _._ ' It was at odds with the concern emanating from him: he might just as easily have been worrying about me. And yet… I know how important she is to him.

But the look on his face back on Quesh, or when he put her in the tank… you can't fake that.

"You were Black Ops once," Pierce growled, leaning on the holoterminal. "Remember? Or has that commission really gone to your head?"

If Her Lordship and I hadn't been present, I'll bet a flood of abuse and invectives would have come spewing out of Laurent's mouth. She certainly looked as though she was chewing—literally chewing—on her tongue to keep them all in. " _We do what's necessary to get the job done,_ " she grated out bitterly. " _Some of us more than others. Reinforcements_ _will_ _be ready for the assault._ "

She severed the call with a sharp motion.

"Whew," Pierce sighed, shaking his head. "Wouldn't want to be in Laurent's shoes right now."

"The captain made her bed. Now she must lie in it," Her Lordship answered simply. "Wake me should anything arise." With that, she wandered towards her quarters. The instant the door closed, I felt the whoosh of relief that she didn't have to put on the brave face, that she could collapse as she tried to cope with the pain and lingering damages.

"With Moff Galven?" Pierce asked the room at large. "There's a mental image I didn't need."

The holo began to beep. With a sigh, the Captain opened the channel, then groaned low in his throat as the visage of a man with a thin, brittle quality to him appeared. Before the image could finish clearing up, the Captain disconnected the call, his lips pursing.

With a black look at the holoterminal—one that could stop a charging herd of bad ideas come up with by big opinions—he swept off to the cockpit.

"Uh-oh," Pierce grinned maliciously. "Looks like the Captain's got a spot of trouble."

"Someone will have a lot more if it disturbs Her Lordship." And that someone won't be the Captain.


	40. Chapter 40

**On Past Officers**

It was the first morning Her Lordship arrived for breakfast at the usual time, instead of much later. She'd been sleeping much more than usual since the incident on Quesh, which the Captain said was understandable. She might be Sith, but she'd still been half-killed. I wasn't entirely certain she hadn't been dead at some point and just… running on autopilot until the Captain brought her around. Stranger things have happened.

Still, I'd never seen her so off her game; it worried me no small bit.

"Captain you look awful," Her Lordship announced when the Captain—who really did look careworn and as though he hadn't slept last night, or the last several nights—entered during breakfast. It was unusual for him not to have been there when she arrived, but he wasn't. She wasn't just pointing out the obvious—she looked truly concerned.

"My lord, there's a problem," the Captain answered, ignoring her comment.

"What kind of problem?" she asked, tensing.

The Captain took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Moff Broysc contacted the ship several days ago and was incensed to find me at the helm." That must be before the one he hung up on. "He's been sending messages ever since—messages that are increasingly nonsensical." The Captain began to pace agitatedly, Her Lordship's eyes following him back and forth. "He's always been scattered and aggressive, but now he seems completely unhinged."

"He must have been at the funeral," Her Lordship mused. "We weren't exactly discreet, and Uncle Tim would have had a lot of so-called well-wishers who were there because they were expected to be. I know I saw Kilran, there."

I guess Grand Moff Kilran and Moff Thorne didn't see eye to eye very often. And I wasn't keeping the Captain hidden the whole time we were there, just during the fight.

"That was my conclusion also," the Captain answered.

"The next time he calls, I will speak with the man."

"Thank you, my lord. Tens of thousands of soldiers and some of the Empire's most critical campaigns are at the mercy of his commands." Whoever this Broysc character is, he's a phantom haunting the good Captain. I'd never seen him agitated almost to the point of ranting.

"It's good to see your dander up," Her Lordship purred, considering him. "I wonder where it will take you…"

The Captain shot her a _look_ which showed he was not amused and had no desire to be coaxed towards adhering to Sith standards of behavior today. Even by her. "I just hope the man comes to his senses."

Her Lordship shrugged, but it was clear they would agree to disagree on this point. "I won't have him interfering with operations or with my personnel, Captain," Her Lordship concluded darkly.

The Captain tensed at this, as the threat was explicit. Her Lordship might not kill this Moff, but she was definitely going to discourage him from calling back. Anything up to killing him was fair game. "My lord, I do suggest clemency until we're sure the situation can't be remedied," came the careful response.

Her Lordship scowled, then nodded once. "I trust your judgment, Quinn."

Some of the tension went out of him, but I could tell without any difficulty that he felt squeezed.

" _Who_ is Moff Broysc?" I asked, once the Captain had retreated.

"Someone I should like to throttle. The Captain would beat me to it if he was any less principled." She didn't make it sound like an insult, just a fact.

I knew that was the only answer I would get: the Moff, whoever he was, was a part of the Captain's past… one that worried the Captain and annoyed Her Lordship.

 **On Insane Imperials**

I woke with a yawn jerked by Her Lordship through our bond. Still in my pajamas, I entered the main chamber of the ship to find Her Lordship and the Captain fully dressed—the former looking as though she'd been woken up for the meeting, the latter looking frazzled to his last nerve.

Her Lordship's displeasure hung in the air like gloom. Despite wearing her day clothes—with a long, sleeveless robe like Lord Augustine wears to indicate she was Sith—she still looked imposing. Imposing and angry. "Let me see this idiot for myself," she said grimly.

The Captain stepped to the control panel and entered a few commands. "Here he is, my lord."

" _Flew the coop!_ " the Imperial on the other end of the transmission hissed. He was the same small, fragile-looking man, monkeylike in some ways, bird-like in others, I glimpsed last week.

And his voice was annoying.

" _Your new cage will be smaller and tighter! Coffin-sized._ _Urn_ _-sized! In a locket I'll wear around my neck!_ "

He's the one who assigned (some might say confined) the Captain to Balmorra. I knew the Captain had been there in something like disgrace, but that was about all I knew—excepting that Her Lordship was currently standing between him and this fellow's meddling.

Her Lordship's lip began to curl, her eyes narrowing, tension leeching into her as if she would _very_ much like to destroy the man right this instant.

"He's unlikely to stop, my lord. He didn't even know he was on hold," the Captain supplied.

" _Druckenwell proved my point!_ "

I glanced at the Captain, who had gone thin-lipped. Clearly he was over his agitated shock, which had morphed into something like… rage. Anger… and a desire to _break_ this Moff. The sense of vindictiveness was worthy of a Sith. I'd never seen his eyes flinty like that.

And for once, Her Lordship wasn't looking at him.

" _My glory is mine!_ _Mine_ _!_ " The Moff continued, gesticulating wildly. " _You're_ _nobody_ _!_ "

"It's like a space collision," Her Lordship grimaced. "You can't help but watch."

" _Where's my blaster? I'll shoot your face! Personally! And again!_ "

Her Lordship's expression continued to twist, a baleful aura beginning to radiate from her. She _didn't_ like her Captain being threatened. Sith can be… possessive… and Her Lordship is no exception.

" _I'll blow Balmorra way! I'll blow Balmorra away this time—wait… what? Gone?_ " The Moff had finally noticed he was ranting at Her Lordship, whose expression was quite black indeed. " _Where to?_ " He squinted as his voice lost some of its strength and a little (but not much) of the insanity so clearly acting upon him. " _There's a_ _Sith_ _on this… why did you transfer me Radjnik? I'll ship_ _you_ _off to Balmorra, too!_ "

"Radjnik is the communications officer," the Captain supplied softly.

Poor fellow.

"This is how it's been," the Captain gestured almost helplessly at the Moff's image.

" _Radjnik, am I though? Yes or no? Are you sure? I don't see—is this broken? All I see is a Sith!_ "

"You see a Sith," Her Lordship answered in the forced-calm that usually foreboded explosions of temper… and violence. "Because you have called _my_ ship. I was _sleeping_ , Moff."

Amusing, considering she's made it clear to us that she's never so asleep that information should be put off if it really shouldn't wait.

The Moff gave a startled little jump, peering near-sightedly at Her Lordship. " _…_ _your_ _ship… but, I was talking to—wait…_ _you're_ _the one who dared to liberate the Admiral… have you lost your mind!?_ " By now he was shouting again. It was like listening to a kitten trying to roar like a lion only much less cute and endearing.

Her Lordship glanced at the Captain. "He calls me Admiral Malcontent." The Captain snorted. "He seems to think that's my actual rank and name."

I'd gleaned from Her Lordship that Lord Grathan had an asset in Imperial High Command… and she said to the Captain at the funeral, when he brought her a list of those assets… 'it's fate.' That means there's a good chance _this_ is Lord Grathan's asset.

He's not long for this world. Her Lordship will strike out anything and anyone associated with Grathan. That this idiot is associated with her captain is just icing on the cake.

" _Don't you know he's the one who lost the Battle of Taley_?"

Her Lordship scowled, then glanced to the Captain for clarification rather than asking if it was true.

"Broysc's earliest command—before I was born."

Wow. I wouldn't call the Captain old, he's got one of those ageless faces, but he was no child and definitely older than Her Lordship. So… thirty-five at youngest (which is old to me, I suppose). Tells you something about Broysc.

" _Don't you know he's the one who let the escaped Jedi targets to flee Taris before the bombardment?!_ " He was so riled and so wound up that he made a jerky movement that disarranged his hat. His hands flew to it to clamp it into place before he attempted to straighten it.

Her Lordship's jaw dropped, literally dropped. "…ancient history. _Brosyc_ wasn't even born," she answered blankly.

A cold feeling settled into my stomach. If I could say one good thing for the Republic—aside from better attitudes towards aliens—it was that this would not have been allowed to continue, to reach this point. At least… I believed it wouldn't when I was part of it.

" _He sabotaged the Glory Space Station for crying out loud!_ "

The Captain's expression crumpled as he began to shake his head. "I have no idea what that is."

"I do," Her Lordship answered softly.

Sounds like a figment of Broysc's addled wits, something he can blame the Captain for… sabotage of his 'glory' I suppose and this man's ego is about the size of a space station. He mentioned a concern like that earlier. Someone has major inferiority issues.

" _I_ _hear him,_ _I'm_ _talking!_ " The Moff pointed dramatically at Her Lordship, being unable to see the Captain. I won't say he's hiding; I think he really did believe a visual on him would only agitate the Moff further. " _His insubordination is lethal, paralyzing, it threatens the Empire and_ _you do nothing_ _!_ "

We were lucky the volume was low—well, fortunate the Captain had it turned down—so as not to disturb Vette, Pierce and Broonmark. I was privy because I'm Her Lordship's apprentice. If she kills this man herself I'll be going with her, shadowing her like I always do. The Captain's personal history isn't anyone else's concern. Pierce would have a field day with it. He might even go so far that Her Lordship might knock him around to drive home the idea of 'taboo subject, keep your mouth shut.'

I _looked_ into the Moff—which was weird, given time and distance—and hissed softly.

 _His mind was unlike anything I'd ever encountered. He was… jumbled… shards and shrapnel floating in suspension. Fractures had fractures, splinters glittering brokenly in the drab greyness. He was_ _terrified_ _of the Captain, of the man he knew could replace him and do so quite handily—Broysc knew he was obsolete, defunct, but concrete knowledge had submerged itself in the quagmire currently permitting him to function (I use the term loosely). It was why he'd exiled the Captain, tried to destroy him…_

…which is how Baras got his hooks into the Captain. Salvage a burning-down career, keep him an officer, earn the man's gratitude.

I began to feel, more strongly than ever, a deep, burning resentment towards Her Lordship's pig of a master… and towards this fool on the Captain's behalf. I'd always wondered why he was just a captain, capable and cunning as he is, suited for command. Now I knew: military (and, to a degree, Sith) politics.

"I do not accommodate lunatics," Her Lordship said dangerously. It was a sign of how far gone the Moff was that he didn't step back as she gestured at him.

" _You will_ _not_ _defy me!_ " the Moff screeched.

"I'll do more than defy you, madman," Her Lordship purred, but her words went unheard by the increasingly distressed Moff. "You need to be muzzled, locked away before you do serious damage."

" _Fight his disease, Sith!_ " Spit flew, visible even via holo. " _Save yourself and deliver him to me for execution!_ _Now_ _! Are you lis—_ " His words ended on a gag as Her Lordship lifted a hand. The Moff's hands flew to his throat as he began to flail and kick, indicating she'd levitated him as well as put him in a chokehold. She had to really concentrate to do it, reaching through time and space with only the holo to guide her, but she did it.

I noticed that the Force on our end didn't shift as it will when a Force-user draws on it. Rather, the Force-used twisted the Force near his or her target. It's one thing to know how it works; it's another to see it, perceive it, in action.

Her nostrils flared as genuine anger, acrid and hot, whipped up around her. In a fair galaxy, her hair and robes would have billowed with it. "I have had enough of your raving for one night. _Do not call back._ " She didn't pull a mind trick on him, but I felt she had the right idea: he'd remember the sense of choking, of being unable to breathe. She squeezed him for several more moments to drive the message home, then severed the call, looking morose. "This is more serious than I was led to believe."

Anger over the threat of execution continued to slap against my senses.

The Captain ignored the complaint. "With Broysc in command the Empire is in critical danger. I must implore High Command to do something about him."

Her Lordship grimaced at him, plainly of the opinion that High Command—who had let things go this far in the first place—was a complete waste of time.

The Captain gave her a speaking look. For his own comfort, for his own peace of mind, he had to know he'd done everything he could working within the system. He didn't want to resort to Sith tactics… correction, he wanted to, but discipline demanded military channels. His hatred for the Moff, exacerbated by seeing the man so incapable of the command he held, was obvious. He wasn't even trying to keep it off his face by this point.

"Very well," Her Lordship yielded. "If there's anything I can do to help, say the word."

The Captain regarded his hands on the edge of the holoterminal. "A prepared statement would be beneficial… thank you."

"Make this a priority, Quinn. We're at war." She didn't need to motivate him, but her impatience with the military's gummed-up works was clear.

"Of course, my lord."

"I'll have the statement written before breakfast." With that, she marched off, plainly intending to write a nasty little note while her temper was still hot.

The Captain exhaled, leaning heavily on the holoterminal, distress and anger warring in his unusually loud aura.

I withdrew as well, leaving him to his thoughts.

 **On Light Side Sith**

We touched down somewhere with no one knowing what was going on. The tension had driven Vette to hide in the dormitory, and Pierce was picking off targets in the cargo hold. Her Lordship and the Captain had been in the cockpit since the hyperspace jump was plotted, neither speaking, the Captain dutifully in the pilot's chair, Her Lordship in the copilot's chair, rather than the one commanding the best view.

I thought she might have been dozing: she was recovering, but still tended to need a couple hours around midday to recharge for the rest of it.

It was late when we dropped out of hyperspace. The atmosphere in the ship was enough that I didn't think I could sleep, so I withdrew to the engine room, taking refuge with the throbbing hum of the engines as we drifted or orbited or whatever.

It was easier than ever to reach out, questing out vaguely with my senses. Anything to get away from the stifling atmosphere of grim anticipation, mixed with something like hopeless resignation… and below it all a seething joint sense of anger.

I fell into awareness, imagining the galaxy as nothing more than a big aquarium. Fish and plants, rocks and caverns, strange things I didn't understand and air bubbles mingled in a vast array. So much in existence all at once… Her Lordship's visualization suggestion proved to be far more effective than anything I'd ever tried. Then again, she's had more than twenty-five years of practice with these things.

I groped out, feeling ripples and oscillations within the galaxy. Mostly stars popping in or out of existence, the warmth of the glowing stones that were foreign suns, the eddies caused by the orbiting of worlds…

…then a pop that had nothing to do with the usual large events that moved the waters (so to speak). It was a darting minnow, a cell compared to the movements of the galaxy.

The aquarium vanished as I quested out for that strange pop, a light limned in darkness, bleeding and broken. Terror and pain radiated from it, throbbing like a bad tooth.

A Light-Side Sith… I'd recognize the feel-perception anywhere.

I concentrated, feeling out. Fear sheeted off the man, regret, confusion. He was so wrapped up in his own turmoil—he was dying, I realized—that he never noticed my inquisitive consideration.

He'd been killed because… someone discovered his secret, that the Dark Side had no true hold on him, that he was something between Sith and Jedi when everyone knows there's only one or the other except a few ridiculous fragments here and there without the strength to be Sith or the dedication (read: blind idiocy) to be Jedi.

There was a… Sith… that did the damage. A man, pale with black tattoos and a cruel soul. He'd killed the Sith but hadn't stuck around to watch him die by inches. I felt that was more than a little tacky on the killer's part, but to each his or her own—the dying Sith wasn't going anywhere or making any last-round comebacks.

It was strange to hang there, a ball of perception, watching the Sith die. I've seen death—quite a bit since joining with Her Lordship—but this was different. Strange. Even as I focused on what I could perceive of the Sith who did the damage, I found it fascinating to watch this man's life ebbing away, oozing out of him like honey out of a cracked jar.

I reached out actively, prodded him, his mind and thoughts so full of the Sith that did the damage, ideas swirling around the notion of a man, a lord, with agents and a mandate: destroy Light-leaning Sith. This one had no idea how this lord discovered his secret… but the very thought terrified the Sith, made him more aware of his pains.

Eventually… he was gone. A little air bubble in the Force, imperceptible in the grand scheme of things but to those who watched.

I opened my eyes, aware that the engines had, at some point stopped. We'd landed wherever we were going, but my meditations had left me in a better mindset for dealing with the tension aboard the _Astral Blight_.

Fortunately, the tension had transmuted. The Captain was gone, though Her Lordship seemed to expect him back any moment. Her angry tension had become a collected ball of disgust and hatred, something she seemed to hold in her hands, focusing on, nurturing, like a seed she expected to flower if she gave it enough attention.

"You've been very distant," she noted without truly breaking out of her reverie.

"Yes. Where is everyone?"

"Pierce and Vette are at the nearest cantina trying to find something for me. Quinn has… a meeting. Broonmark is in his quarters," Her Lordship answered serenely.

In effect, she cleared the ship of the most curious and the most likely to make loud obnoxious trouble. Broonmark follows Her Lordship's lead.

I nodded. "Are we expecting company?"

Her smile was cruel. "I hope so."

 **On Killing the Past**

"My lord?" the Captain sounded harassed and slightly winded as he called for her.

"In the lounge," Her Lordship announced.

I came out of the dormitory where I'd been meditating on the death of that Light-Side Sith to see the Captain with none other than Moff Broysc slung over one shoulder. The man was smaller in person, squirming like a trapped eel.

Without being asked, the Captain announced, "I found him on a pleasure barge. He was on R and R while countless battles are raging. Despicable." His disgust was surprisingly obvious. Usually he contains his critical emotions when they pertain to superiors, but not today. Apparently Broysc and his behavior have pushed the Captain too far…

I can't help but wonder if Her Lordship means to turn this into a training exercise for the Captain.

As far as being on R and R, I could only assume it was unsanctioned or somehow out of order. I don't know much about that aspect of the military, but I trusted the Captain to know his own business.

"How did you excuse bringing him here?" Her Lordship asked, getting out of her chair as the Captain flung the Moff onto the floor—none too gently at that.

Around his gag, the Moff squealed like a piglet.

"Pardon me if I overstepped," the words were just a formality, "but, as he would not listen to reason, I felt he ought to be conveyed to you, since his master is something of a problem. I made it quite clear that a Sith of consequence expected a word with him, but without resorting to any names. His men were glad to see the back of him, so they did not object." With this, the Captain straightened his uniform, mussed and disarranged by Broysc's squirming.

Hmph. With a skinny, saggy butt like that? I doubt it… but I suppose I mustn't be overly literal.

"That's fine," Her Lordship said, stalking over to the Moff, who'd managed to get to his knees. The Captain had bound him at the wrists, but except for the gag the Moff was otherwise unfettered. Thus, it was easy for the old man to get to his knees before Her Lordship jerked him to them.

She deftly wrenched the gag the Captain had used out of the Moff's mouth, letting him cough and sputter for several moments while she prowled around him.

"Moff Broysc. So good of you to drop in," she announced.

He's going to die… and she's going to tear into him before she kills him.

I leaned against the holoterminal, watching intently. The man's definitely earned her ire. The question is whether she'll kill him… or leave the pleasure to the Captain (who wouldn't use that particular word).

"Stop! Traitor!" The Moff almost screamed, his chalky face flushing red as the Captain stationed himself deferentially beside—but slightly apart from—Her Lordship. The Moff staggered to his feet like an unsteady colt. "You! Sith! I commandeer your ship, your crew, I commandeer _you_! Mine! Now!"

Her Lordship smiled, a silky smile full of dark promise. The anticipation of sinking her claws into this Moff was the only thing that allowed her to tolerate him shouting at her like that. She stepped away from the Captain, circling the Moff once before speaking to him. "Do you see who has bettered you, Moff? The man you wronged has you dead to rights, now."

The Moff blanched, looking with hatred and a sort of cornered-animal viciousness at the Captain, who remained stoic, at parade rest.

But the Captain's face was far less impassive than usual, a faint tinge of red had begun to appear on his pale skin and his eyes, an intense blue to begin with, seemed somehow brighter and darker at the same time. Even his breathing was elevated and not necessarily with exercise. This was the very picture of rage and resentment—years of it—being held in check only by habit… but those restraints were fraying with every high-pitched sound that came out of the Moff's scrawny body.

"No! Never!" the Moff nearly screamed.

"Did you really think a man like that would stay where you put him just because _you_ put him there? Look at him," she shot out a hand and, with a grip like iron, turned the Moff's head so he had no choice but to look. He squirmed, trying to disengage her, but without use of his hands failed spectacularly. "Captain second class already, in spite of your meddling."

She released him only to slap him hard enough to send his head snapping to the side, hard enough to send him stumbling. Her Lordship is strong for a woman, so the blow was hardly something to shrug off quickly. The crack of her hand meeting his face was terrific. The Moff tripped, landing heavily with a squeal.

"In the service of a powerful Sith and indispensable to same. This is a man going places, Moff—without my good word to get him there."

"No!" The Moff shrieked, scrambling to his feet. "I shunned him! I exiled him!"

Her Lordship simply chuckled, the sound breaking off when she slapped the man again. The crack of her hand against his face made me flinch. The Moff hit the ground again.

"He's going to replace you eventually, you know. That's what this is really about, isn't it? You saw it that day, you _knew_ it that day. It's why you're a drooling lunatic now. I've known Sith like you. They never know when to jump ship and escape with their winnings."

It occurred to me that the Captain, so astute, so well-versed in reading others, hadn't realized that _this_ , that _fear,_ was the root of the Moff's malice. Perhaps he'd simply spent too much time in disgrace on Balmorra to register the situation for what it was. Then again, while he's proud I wouldn't call him a man of great ambition—that is to say, he'd like to advance but only if it won't damage the Empire.

And this Moff was concrete proof that one man could cause more damage than one might think. Perhaps a statement to Her Lordship… or me… or maybe I was reading too much into it.

"I'll be very surprised if he's not a Moff in a few years."

The Moff was on his feet again, panting like a winded prey animal. "He was to waste away!" the Moff screamed, almost in her face.

Her Lordship gestured, lifting the Moff off the ground before slamming him into the floor with a disturbing lack of bounce upon impact.

I had the impression she would have liked nothing better than to batter him slowly into submission. One would never know she'd been brooding over her hatred and grievances towards him (and his master) before he arrived. She was so cold, so calm, so collected.

"Well, clearly he isn't going to," Her Lordship answered quietly.

The Moff stood where he was, panting hard, the ends of his thick mustache blowing. "I-you-you…" the Moff stammered, rallying himself as he looked rapidly around him as if he saw more people than were actually present. "You are my men now! I-I command you all: kill-kill yourselves! I have spoken!"

The Captain's reserve broke, snapping like a rubber band. He uncrossed his arms from over his chest and strode up to Her Lordship. "My lord, I've resisted all this time but this _is_ personal," he grated out, truly in pink in the face, posture tense, inches away from shaking with the tension. There was nothing on his face but unmasked, unbound, unconcealed hatred of the bitterest, darkest sort—the kind of that only showed because the scarring had finally been ripped away to reveal the infection beneath.

In that moment, he put me in mind of Her Lordship when she gets into certain killing moods.

From the look on her face, the feel of her aura… she found it a sight to behold, something to still the breath and garner her undivided attention. In that moment, he reminded me of a force of nature, just as Her Lordship sometimes does—a creature of fire and power and today he didn't care who knew it, who saw it. He might be surprised at himself later, but at the moment he seemed truly in focus as a being.

I could see what Her Lordship saw past the mundanely obvious. He's got a core nature that burns hot, that runs deep. It's the sort of thing that strengthens and even sustains a Sith partner.

The Captain shot a nasty look at the Moff. "Permission to execute the Moff."

The Moff's expression was almost comical, his mouth working but only a sputter coming out. Apparently he didn't expected the Captain to have the backbone (or anything else) to require his death… and the Moff couldn't miss that Her Lordship was not only in a position to grant such a thing, she was in a position to ensure no one complained of it later.

"I will not order it," Her Lordship answered calmly, her gaze fixed on the Captain's. "Do you hate him enough to take responsibility for this?"

"You cannot kill me!" The Moff spat at the Captain. " _You_ cannot kill _me_! _I_ am a _Moff_!"

"Not anymore." The Captain drew his sidearm and discharged two rounds which hit the Moff squarely in the chest, spattering him onto the nearest wall and all over the floor. I watched the Moff bleeding; the sight made me think back to the Light-side Sith. They were such very different deaths, both parties screaming in agony and dying—essentially—alone.

By this point some of the Captain's surge of emotion had burned off, and he looked a little shell-shocked. I doubted he'd feel regret, or feel he'd been out of control, but it was over—just like that. Two rounds to the chest and… it was over. All those years since Druckenwell and it was finally _over_. All those years of hating the man and swallowing it had come bursting out of him… now there was nothing in that space, just that stark and unexpected emptiness.

Her Lordship walked up to the Captain and guided his sidearm back into its holster with gentle fingers. He blinked, looking down at her and was met with a gentle kiss, a feather-light brush of lips that made me feel very uncomfortable. Strangely enough, it wasn't what I would have expected, something so soft, so tender. She opened her mouth as it for speak, but a sound at the airlock indicated Pierce and Vette were back.

"Jaesa. Have Pierce take us up: this carrion can be expelled through the airlock," she announced briskly, sliding her arm protectively around the Captain's. "Have Tuvi clean up this mess." With that, she rose onto tiptoe to whisper in the Captain's ear. I saw her from the words more than heard her say them: 'come with me, Malavai.' With that, she walked the Captain, who made no protest and offered no resistance, towards his quarters.

Every ounce of her radiated comfort and reassurance. Strange for a Sith and stranger to think Her Lordship could feel anything like that. Then again… well, Her Lordship is a law unto herself.

I suppose it's wise: the Captain isn't used to such emotional explosions. Doubtful he's ever had one like this. Someone to fuss over him a bit wouldn't go amiss. And I have no doubt: any fussing by Her Lordship will be practically… innocent. He's emotionally compromised; she wouldn't, couldn't, be anything but supportive.

"What the hells?" Pierce demanded.

"Oh, _gross_!" Vette yelped.

Her yelp brought Broonmark, who had ignored what sounded like a situation under control. " _Our_ _Sith was provoked_ ," he remarked.

"Pierce," I broke in, "take us up—we're to vent the body out of the airlock."

"Hey, I'm not—" Vette began, waving her hands nervously, the way she always does when the topic of cleaning things up occurs.

" _Tuvi_ will handle the mess, Vette. Tuvi!" The droid, hiding from the violence, appeared, then warbled his distress at the blood. "Once we've got the body disposed of, get this mess cleaned up."

He promptly went for cleaning supplies, fussing over how something must have terribly disturbed his master, that perhaps he ought to make her something hot and soothing to drink.

That droid is hilarious, sometimes.

"Who is he?" Vette asked nervously, studying the terror-stricken expression on the Moff's face.

"Moff Broysc," I answered simply.

Vette's eyes travelled to the gunshot wounds. "Oh. _Oh_! Right."

I nodded, raising a hand and levitating the Moff, still dripping, off the ground. It didn't take much to guide him into the airlock and dump the body, sealing the small chamber until we reached actual space and could vent it.

Her Lordship was gone about five minutes after having escorted the Captain away. She looked tired and a little upset, but it was the kind of upset one feels over the upset of one of whom one is fond. "Set a course for somewhere not here," she called to Pierce.

"Is the Captain alright?" I asked meekly.

"He's just a little shell-shocked. Rest will rebalance him. He'll feel better in the morning."

"Are you alright?" I asked, still feeling uncertain of her temper.

"I'd have liked to dismember him slowly, but this was Quinn's calling. It's best that he finished it. Still no word from the Hand?"

"None, my lord," I answered quietly. "But there is something else… unrelated to all this."

"Indeed?" She sat down at the table and gave me her attention.

I joined her there. "Last night I couldn't sleep. I sensed something and ventured out, tracking the sensation. I came upon a badly injured Sith who reeked of the Light Side. He was suffering and on the verge of death." A death that was strangely poetic.

"I take it his miserable existence was ended?" Despite the morose tone, I thought she was glad to have a distraction.

"Yes. His injures were extreme. He indicated a man—a lord—whose task is to seek traitors to the Dark Side." By now, Her Lordship was fully attentive—or, rather, distracted from her brooding over the dead Moff and the wellbeing of her Captain. "Whoever this man is, he filled the Sith with so much fear and pain." I took a deep breath, uncertain but unable to back out. "All I could think is… where do we sign up?"

Her Lordship smiled, probably suspecting I said 'we' rather than 'I' since I'm only an apprentice and not yet fully trained to her satisfaction. She ought to be included in any undertaking of mine. "We could coordinate resources with this Sith."

I smiled at the approval in her tone. "Exactly my thinking. I—we—could provide information, leads to follow even if we're not allowed to intervene. We could clean up the Empire all the more thoroughly. By using my power on the dying man I got an impression of the Sith who did the damage. I'll be on the lookout for him, or some kind of trail I can follow to locate him."

"You have my blessing—leave no stone unturned. Let me know what you find. And if you come across more traitors in the ranks.. feel free to deal with them as you see fit."

"I will be thorough. I'll admit, I've been… wondering… what my gift is _for_. Maybe… maybe this is it." I bit my lip. The idea was a new one, but it seemed to have been in the back of my mind the whole time. So new, but not so new at all.

"Your gift is what you make of it, Jaesa. This does seem a worthy endeavor and you're well-suited to aiding it. Only be mindful—you know the things your gift arouses in others."

In others, yes. But not her. "I won't be used, my lord. Rest easy on that score."

She nodded her agreement to this, then accepted a cup of hot chocolate from Tuvi, who whined at her about not letting herself get so distressed.

It was almost cute to see the droid fussing as though Her Lordship was a poor puppy pulled inside out of a wet, cold, wretched day.


	41. Chapter 41

**The Way of the Sith**

I didn't get to stay on Nar Shaddaa, our next destination, even long enough to get a private word with Rathari—my choice, because something more interesting had come up. During the trip, a message came in for me from Lord Cendence, the Sith responsible for the purification of the Sith Order. It was an invitation to come to his ship to talk about including me in his mission (or to remove me if I turned out to be wasting his time).

Her Lordship was, as ever, perfectly supportive, urging me to 'go, play.'

She always refers to Sith matters in terms of 'games' and however she treats them in conversation, it's just a euphemism—they are always treated, in practice, as matters of the utmost seriousness. Anything who thinks otherwise is fooling himself—perhaps one reason why she does it.

Her Lordship would have been proud of me, as I sauntered into the room on Lord Cendence's ship where my audience was to take place. I imagined her standing somewhere in the background—not difficult, given the loose connection to her I felt at all times, a deep well of strength I could reach out and touch if I needed it.

 _Your primary training, however unsatisfactory, gives you an edge. It's unfamiliar. It will come out of the blue. Use that to your effect._

"My lord," I bowed my head gracefully. "I am Jaesa Willsaam, apprentice to Her Lordship Hellanix Balanchine-Renault. I thank you for your time."

 _A Sith with pretty manners gives her observers false information from which to form conclusions. They think 'ah, she is weak to be so well-spoken and polite.' Let them think it. When the body count racks up high enough the people of most concern will see the truth, even if the lackeys do not. It will be enough._

Lord Cendence was possibly the best-looking Sith I'd ever come across. Having grown up where aliens were accepted as more or less equals (usually less, but more equal than in the Empire) and studying under a Sith who believed in a true meritocracy, his species didn't matter. In fact, it made him rather… appealing.

He was Rattataki, his skin bone-white, accentuated by flat-black tattoos. I wasn't sure if the black around his eyes and defining his lips were the product of ink and needle or just the kind of paint Her Lordship uses, but the effect was certainly in his favor. Except for his eyelashes, he had no hair, not on his head or around his jaw or even eyebrows—the latter of which he painted or had tattooed on.

He was slender rather than lean, somewhat on the short side for a man, but moved with a fluid grace, a prowly, slinky sort of walk that made me think of a snake slithering up a tree, scales glistening above powerful muscle. I liked the way his black robes and the belt from which his lightsaber hung accentuated his long lines, and the way his thrown-back hood pooled at his shoulders, emphasizing the sweep of his pale throat.

The Force roiled around him, more like a smelly cloud than a true surge of power. There was malevolence to him, certainly potency, but judging him against Her Lordship I found him somewhat lacking in every department except good looks.

And, as Her Lordship is fond of pointing out 'people will excuse just about anything if you are charming and powerful.' Goodness knows she proves it several times a week.

The thought made me wonder, yet again, why Her Lordship was so doggedly determined to have the Captain rather than find a Sith lord. Surely there had to be Sith aplenty who could appeal to her tastes… so why the Captain? I know it's none of my business. If she wants him, it's her choice. And make no mistake: she wants him above all other things. Her efforts are organized and meticulous, careful, like a jeweler cracking a diamond into the desired shape.

I haven't said so, but I've studied him, too. He wants her as well, and his desire burns hot, so much so that it always amazes me how much of a cold fish he presents himself as being. The rigid self-control is worthy of a Jedi, and I wonder if Her Lordship senses it and is banking on it slipping one day. I'm further amazed the Captain hasn't simply snatched her up and kissed her breathless after she finishes a bout of recreational slaughter. He always wants her most after she's been killing… and it has nothing to do with the violence, merely the spectacle.

I swear, they should be lighting a planet's atmosphere on fire, burning skies, with the sparks they throw off. Maybe they'll get something resolved while I'm away. The tension perceptibly change pitch since the Moff's death. Being in a room with the two of them, even when they weren't _doing_ anything, produced a kind of tension that made one think of two large predators sizing one another up.

I forced my mind away from Her Lordship's twisted, convoluted relationship to pay full attention to Lord Cendence. We exchanged urbanities, both of us smiling pleasantly (but not without dark undertones). Whether his courtesy was because he was of the same school of thought as Her Lordship or because he'd heard of her and didn't want to offend me (and, by extension her), I didn't know. Maybe a little of both?

When he offered me a drink, I accepted, and used the few moments during which he was not watching me to look intohim. First and foremost, I sensed no intention of poisoning me; the wine was good, a rich vintage I identified as a compliment to the one being served. Her Lordship's tutelage includes developing a palate for wine, it seems.

What I found after that displeased me immensely: _he was playing a farce, was proud of his own cleverness. He was black-hearted, sadistic, cruel, which is fine as he's Sith… but with petty goals and base ambitions. So much so that they barely warrant being called ambitions. Without his Dark Council backer he'd be just another slug groveling at the feet of his betters…_

… _or ingratiating himself in_ _other_ _ways._

Surely the Dark Council doesn't know about this; surely they believe his efforts genuine and in good faith—such as things are ever believed among Sith.

As handsome as he is, I found my lip trying to curl. Handsome, yes, but utterly loathsome.

Hmph. He's just a second-rate—third-rate—toady with the sense to lie and the skill to do so before his masters. Here, then, is part of the _rot_ assailing the Sith, as much or more than those inclining towards the Light Side of the Force. If they must, let them be Jedi. If they stay… well. They should dig very deep burrows indeed and be sure not to forget to dig exits as well.

Bile burned in my stomach at the thought—I would claw out their eyes if I could. I suppose I'll have to satisfy myself by tearing this… creature… apart.

I've never fought a Sith _lord_ in earnest… but this deception cannot be tolerated. If I leave it be, I become complicit. Her Lordship wouldn't approve of this self-aggrandizement at the cost of the Empire as a whole. Especially when he's so… petty… there at his very core. He likes having someone by the throat. It makes him feel powerful.

It's pathetic. _Feeling powerful_ is a delusion in which no Sith should indulge. Either one _is_ or one _is not_ and one should govern oneself by this idea.

I didn't really drink my drink, merely toyed with it, wetting my lips from time to time. I noticed he wasn't actually drinking either. Conversation turned practical, which was a relief and a concern. I'm not Her Lordship, to delicately guide a conversation, to lure my opponents into fatal missteps and keep them unaware that they've made them. I lack her gift of clever conversation, though I'd like to think I've improved since I've learned to loosen my tongue when in company.

But I had a try, explained my interest in his work, my background as a 'rescued Jedi' (we both chuckled at this) and, in telling of the rescue, explaining as if by-the-by about my gift. I could have laughed: I might not be Her Lordship, but he salivated at the repetition of the hint I'd dropped when requesting this meeting and pounced on the confirmation of what it is I do like a dog on a bone.

"It's very accurate," I declared with a shrug, "it was why Her Lordship was tasked to find me… though I daresay she assigns it little value." Which was true, and I'd come to feel disappointed by the lack of attention. The thing that made me so valuable to the Jedi was just a bauble, a toy for me to play with but which Her Lordship concerned herself very little about. She only ever spoke explicitly about it once, when telling me not to use it on her master that first day I met him face-to-face.

It was strange that I wanted her to value and use my gift when I previously spent so much time feeling lost behind it. Maybe it's because she saved me and it's all I have to offer that she couldn't easily find elsewhere. Maybe she just appreciates it more when I offer to use it for her, making it a wholly voluntary act, showing her I'm paying attention to her work, that I'm eager to help however I can.

That does sound like her. Those who serve her—well, those closest and most useful to her—serve willingly, laying loyalty and skillsets at her feet like tribute. And why not? Hm. Good to remember.

Lord Cendence smiled, his teeth white against his black lips, almost as white as his skin. "That's truly a shame. A young woman like yourself should not be so underestimated. Or undervalued."

An answering smile curved my mouth as I looked away from him as if warmed by the compliment; it felt artificial, but Lord Cendence didn't seem to see it as such. "By all means, my lord, continue," I murmured, feigning embarrassment.

His interest in me spiked again, his silvery eyes glittering like light on water. I'm young, after all, pretty, and baiting me into a manipulation that is both easy and probably pleasurable for the one doing the manipulating wouldn't be a waste of time. He probably assumed youth meant inexperience, but he doesn't know anything about the curriculum Her Lordship uses.

"I should like to very much; charming companionship is something I find in short supply."

"I quite agree." Bastard.

Cendence—no point by now of thinking in terms of honorifics—toyed with his wine, head cocked as he regarded me. If I didn't find him so loathsome on the whole, I might regret my intentions of killing him. Or, if I didn't find him so _utterly_ loathsome, hold off on killing him long enough to get to know him a little better. Regardless, on my list of men in the galaxy Cendence ranks _slightly_ preferable to Her Lordship's master. And that is nearly at the bottom of the list.

"You know, my mandate is a heavy one and the Dark Council expects results. Perfection." He paused, as if my answer might mean more than the words.

"I can only imagine, if the standards Her Lordship sets for me are any indication," I answered, touching my forearm where my own training scars now reposed. The gesture looked unconscious; I knew because Cendence glittered briefly with curiosity.

"So far, I've managed to keep a step ahead of their expectations… but such a thing cannot last forever. I have the sense that your master does not appreciate you as you deserve to be appreciated." The look he cast me could be flirtatious… or not, as my mind preferred to read it.

Most of the time, Sith only catch the surface of what another sapient feels. Anything more specific requires a certain amount of intrusion, and even then it usually stays in the upper layers of a person's mind. What I do, however, is different. It's like holding up the right light or applying heat to expose ink that is otherwise invisible. Thus did I see in him the same thing I saw in Nomen Karr. The only difference was the pressure to be used to bend me to his purpose.

I gave a humorless laugh. "If it is not unseemly, I would venture to express the doubt even the Dark Council could be as demanding a taskmaster. In truth, I believe she hopes that you will allow me to aid you, as my association with you will advance her, as she is my master."

"Oh, I can imagine," Cendence agreed quickly. "to have her apprentice involved in such a worthy venture as I represent, it would certainly cast luster on her, bolster her reputation."

He's painting her like Karr. He'd just as happily step into Karr's boots.

I shrugged, tamping down on my discontent and anger. If I didn't I might shatter the glass in my hand without meaning to. "It's an apprentice's position in life to be used."

"Hardly!" What I read of him said otherwise. Emphatically. Maybe _this_ is why Her Lordship prefers her Force deaf Captain: less Sith intrigue. He's a marginally safer companion. And a true patriot, uncorrupted by Sith games. "And such a thing should not be said of such an exceptional apprentice as you seem to be," he answered solidly.

I looked away modestly, felt his excitement. I am a pretty morsel, after all. Pretty and useful. Her Lordship would call this an opportunity for sharpening my claws.

"Tell me, your gift. Is it completely accurate?" Cendence asked delicately.

" _Entirely_ , my lord. Jedi Master Nomen Karr intended to use it to destroy a Darth—Darth Baras, my master's former master. Do you know of him?" Because apparently Baras isn't enough for anyone else to take his shoot on sight order with regards to my master seriously. Or maybe Sith are always fighting one another so those outside the conflicts, and without a direct interest, ignore them.

"I do. A clever, canny old codger." The remark invited humor, which I showed.

That was when Cendence launched into a delicately worded speech during which he tipped his hand, admitting that he saw his task as being 'to cull the weak'—not necessarily the Light-side Sith as was his mandate. It proved surprisingly easy to get him to confess that his attacks did tend to have some tendency to benefit him in the long run. Nothing outright, obviously, but Sith love subtext, Her Lordship especially so it made sense that I knew to listen for it without having to remind myself to do so.

Nothing he said would be considered damning in a court of law, but Sith don't generally involve themselves with those, even if there's a Dark Council member whose Sphere deals with law.

But the question is not whether I _could_ kill Cendece (although it was _a_ question) but whether I _should_. A good Sith is aware of cause and effect. Could I make use of him? Is there something that could be done with him? But my game isn't as long-minded as Her Lordship's.

So yes, I should kill him, but only if I can arrange a way to keep myself from being killed in response _ex post facto_.

Then he appealed to my pride, indicating that Her Lordship was a fool not to appreciate me, that he would be a far better master, put me to far better uses… and, yes, he did imply that some of those uses were on my back and, yes, I did have to resist the urge to lop his hands off. He wasn't so crass as to feel me up or anything that oughtn't have an audience, but I detested the physical proximity the more I learned of him.

I'd had enough of him by that point: he was abusing his mandate, meant to abuse my gift and then—which was the worst of it…

"Of course, wrangling you away from her would be difficult. Baras' agents—even former ones—are notoriously hard to come at. But if we could prove that _she_ was among those traitorous dogs…" He gesticulated with a long-fingered hand.

"You would have me frame her?" I managed to sound incredulous rather than outraged and forced myself to think of walking a tightrope over large and deep chasm so 'uncertainty' rather than 'outrage' would show in my aura.

Her Lordship is big into visualization exercises.

" _Frame_ her?" He had the gall to look offended. "You don't think she incriminates herself somehow? Have you ever looked at her? Really _looked_ , I mean?"

Because most Sith would refuse to permit such a thing.

I _really looked_ at him in that moment. Not the quick glance of early in our meeting, but a true, deep look. He was the most clichéd, superficial Sith I'd ever had the misfortune to meet—even Draahg had a couple things going for him by comparison. No hidden depths, no bright spots to attract my attention. He was bland, predictable, boring. The only things he had going for him were his looks, the sense to abuse his mandate and the ability to lie convincingly enough to maintain the fiction that he was, in fact, carrying it out in good faith. I also suspect his direct superior is either a fool, a true dupe, or benefits from Cendence's shallow aims.

I smiled as I looked at my glass, half full of wine. "I have, as a matter of fact. And I've looked at you too, Lord Cendence. Twice, in fact."

His smile froze as he seemed to teeter on whether to believe me or not. This is why I say my gift is not intrusive: most people don't realize what I've done even when I do it right in front of them.

"I find you… lacking. Pathetic, really." I moved to the most open space in the chamber we occupied. "I think I'll do the Empire—and the Sith Order—a big, _fat_ favor."

"Oh?" His tone was humorless, and I could see him coiling up, his hand inching towards his lightsaber, sensing the turn this was about to take. His long robes didn't hide the way he adjusted his footing, the subtle movements preparatory to a spring. Now I understood the dress Her Lordship insisted upon for practice. It taught me what to watch for in an opponent who hid his or her legs, taught me to look for how the clothes moved to tell me when a lunge or spring was coming.

It was one of those moments I wished I had time to stop and think about in-depth, that moment in which some of my training crystallized before me. I looked at the glass of wine, then let it drop, as though my fingers suddenly went clumsy. It smashed on the ground, leaving so many glittering shards.

 _An ambush is not like an up-front fight. Draw out the moments before violence occurs; tighten muscles slowly if you can. Doing so, by degrees rather than all at once, means your opponent is less likely to notice what you are doing. You'll see them prepare for the fight but they won't see you and that is an advantage._

Cendence's eyes dropped to the glass, giving me a moment in which to tighten the muscles in my midriff. He never saw it.

I took the moments I could draw out. My long robes hid the tightening of thighs, of claves, of the way I slowly, carefully shifted my weight—one foot, then the other—to the balls of my feet. "Yes." I gave him my full attention, smiling as anticipation rose. "I'm going to kill you." With a flick of my wrist, I sent the shards of shattered cup flying at him.

He reacted like a non-Sensitive, throwing up his hand in time to protect his eyes, but without the Force to provide better cover bloody rents appeared in the unprotected portion of his face and through the cloth of his sleeves, his flinch allowing me time to draw and ignite my lightsaber.

I was already in mid-charge when he lashed out, buffeting me back with a wall of Force power.

I skidded on the floor, but retained my footing. It's the same way Her Lordship halts a sparring match to correct something or make note, so my reaction was practiced: it didn't catch me off-guard or break my concentration, I simply executed a solid landing. She might use it to stop proceedings, but in that situation it is understood what the _push_ means. In combat, though… well. I'm used to the buffeting feeling of it and recover quickly.

Cendence might have been a loathsome toad, but he was an excellent fighter once he got over his initial shock, brimming with rage and hatred—but fear tugged the emotions in several directions at once, detracting from their efficacy.

I knew something he could not afford to have exposed. Anyone who was anyone would want to test the gift that let me see his duplicity… and if my gift proved accurate, my word would be taken over his whether I was an unknown apprentice or not.

So his rage and hatred lacked Her Lordship's focus, the focus she's been imprinting on _me_. He wasted so much energy, although what he used worked to his benefit. It was all I could do not to get my limbs sliced off, even if I got a hit in here and there, staying one step ahead of him. He had more real-world combat practice than I did and I knew his secrets. This was possibly the most emotionally charged battle I'd ever engaged in.

It was interrupted when the door burst open. It startled me (though training kept me from doing something foolish, like turning to see what the sound was), but not Cendence. His lightsaber passed within an inch of my throat before Her Lordship's training took over. My hand shot up unthinkingly, sending a solid Force _push_ into him, just enough to put him off balance.

Reliance on the immaterial, the ephemeral, as an instinct rather than as 'using a power.'

Cendence stumbled on the landing, but neither of us moved as a commanding voice demanded, "What is going on here?" The bite of command was unmistakable.

"This bitch serves a corrupt master—one of Darth Baras' former apprentices—who, upon hearing of my mandate, sent her here to assassinate me!" Cendence lied promptly.

I saw red and heard a high-pitched static in my ears. He dares, _he dares_ …

" _This_ man has been misleading you," I returned, proud of the cold, hammer-on-anvil quality of my voice as I pointed at him with my lightsaber (as best I could considering its form and certainly for dramatic effect). "He has been using his mandate to advance himself. Her Lordship permitted me to come and offer him my assistance and in him I found only treachery."

The man who'd interrupted the fight, a skinny Sith Pureblood whose features were hatchet-sharp and tendril laced, looked between us, his red eyes weighing the scene.

Cendence gave a bitter laugh. "Caliqu." He held his arms out as if inviting the Pureblood to share a joke. "You can't possibly believe this… whelp."

"Why would your master send you here?" the man identified as Caliqu asked, ignoring Cendence's appeal.

"Because the Force has granted me a particular boon, a gift that makes me the greatest asset any endeavor to root out corruption could hope to find. It is my gift to see the true nature of things. Lies. Hidden darkness or untapped purity. Sometimes even motivations."

Caliqu cocked his head, obviously sensing no lie. "Demonstrate."

I looked at him, let the world around me go fuzzy. "You represent the true Sith way—you desire order and power… not for yourself, exactly, but for a strengthened Sith Order. That strength comes from spilling the blood of those who, in their very cores, sympathize with Jedi and their Light Side ways. The Order requires pruning and Cendence was to be the shears used for the job. You trusted this traitor, but you have not missed the detail that every death he brings about in the name of purifying our Order benefits him—or you—in some small way. You've begun to wonder at his accuracy and motivations and with that wondering comes _doubt_." I blinked. "Shall I continue, my lord?"

Caliqu looked as though I'd just hit him over the back of the head.

Cendence's aura, less well-contained than Caliqu's, had gone sickly, putrid with shock.

" _This_ man has abused his mandate and he has maligned Her Lordship, my master. Allow me to finish this fight unhampered, my lord. If I die, you've lost nothing. If he dies… well. You may still have lost nothing." I gave Cendence my best attempt at looking down my nose at him—not difficult since he's exactly the kind of scum I detest.

I tightened my muscles, ready to move as soon as notice was given. Sith aren't above the logic of 'might equals right' and no Sith worth his lightsaber is going to waste time offering speeches when truth is settled by someone's head parting company from his shoulders.

Cendence's rage built, growing hot and more focused. I was going to burn down everything he had worked for, everything he hoped to gain. I, a child, the apprentice to a master he didn't know and didn't care to know, I was going to _break_ him. We were going to fight—and he knew it as well as I did. If we weren't, Caliqu would have already told him to kill me or demanded we both stand down.

"Caliqu," Cendence appealed.

Caliqu looked from me to Cendence and back. "Baras burns through apprentices freely; that her master is a former apprentice of his counts for very little. She, herself, is only a child. You should not find this at all difficult, Cendence." He motioned the crowd of Sith (and the back rank of soldiers) to draw out of the room. He alone remained, standing squarely in the doorway to block entrance or escape.

I wouldn't fail. Failure would cost Her Lordship her life. I wouldn't let that happen. She doesn't need more trouble on top of Baras'. I didn't stop the deaths of so many, but I _would_ _not_ allow Her Lordship's name to join that list. Every ounce of disgust and hatred focused on Cendence, fear of what would happen if I failed focused on him. Remove him and there was nothing to fear. Nothing in the world. Not from this quarter at least.

Cendence and I were on each other a split second later. His anger burned hot through the Force, drumming against the barriers that kept my emotions beyond hate and rage—things that might be telling—to myself. He attacked, predictably, with the ferocity of a wounded beast, someone who had everything to lose.

My blood sang. His taunts bounced off my ears, being far less cutting than the vitriol Her Lordship and I regularly exchanged. In fact, I found myself laughing at his pathetic attempts to weaken my resolve. He was fast and hit hard, but Her Lordship was more skilled in the use of her lightsaber. Cendence was good, don't get me wrong, but he was an entirely different class compared to what I was used to. His style was different, too, but I only needed to watch one lightsaber instead of two.

He had no idea that I was learning the art of combat from a true master and not from some standard, cookie-cutter trained Sith.

Unfortunately, unlike Her Lordship who didn't actively use the Force during combat, Cendence _did_ , and I spent more time trying to deal with those attacks than I did in contending with his lightsaber. He smelled blood in the water too, realizing as quickly as I did that I had this blind spot.

I made a mental note to beg Her Lordship to incorporate aggressive Force use the next time we sparred.

Sweat began to drip down my skin, matting my hair against my head. My arms began to shake as physical endurance began to wane. I wasn't to the point of being able to passively draw on the Force to bolster my endurance, something I was still working on.

Cendence wasn't smiling anymore, though. His eyes blazed, his expression drew into a snarl. I saw disbelief that I could hold him off like this, that a mere apprentice should be so proficient. And there was a seed of _fear_ : if he strikes me down, the master who trained me to be so potent would come for him, and there would be an end to Lord Cendence, mandate or not.

It happened in an instant. I wasn't really looking into him but I _knew_ , as he adjusted his weight, that his dodge left was a feint. I don't know how I knew, it just _did_ …

It was over in an instant as I met his strike, turned it, and slashed him across the belly before pivoting to send my blade through his throat. His shocked expression gazed back at me as I pulled my weapon free then executed a spinning slash which caught him and severed his head from his shoulders. He hit the ground with two thumps, leaving me panting and dazed, head pounding, but with a thrill that dumped even more adrenaline and endorphins into my blood.

I turned to find the onlookers gaping… then wondered what in the galaxy I was supposed to do _now_.

I could hear Her Lordship castigating me for my lack of forethought, which was why the burning in my cheeks suddenly increased.

Caliqu's eyes remained on Cendence's body as the silence stretched.

I let my eyes drop, realizing that I couldn't actually feel the bruises forming on my skin, or the web of burns Cendence had managed to inflict via lightning before I broke through the attack. My hands began to shake, and I clenched them tighter around the hilt of my lightsaber. I should have deactivated it, but until I knew how Cendence's death would affect my immediate future, I wanted a live weapon in hand.

"What is your name, apprentice?" Caliqu asked, his tone devoid of any emotion, his aura hidden behind a curtain of something like technical static.

"Jaesa Willsaam, my lord."

"And your master?"

"Lord Hellanix Balanchine-Renault."

Caliqu nodded as though one of the names was familiar to him. "Very well." He glanced at Cendence again. "For the time being you are my guest."

I sighed mentally, knowing that that meant. It meant 'you're my prisoner until I figure out how to deal with this.' I took a little heart from the fact that, through all of this, Caliqu has shown nothing but patient consideration, and the best Sith have patience. I wasn't sure who he was in relation to Cendence or which master he served (another thing Her Lordship might frown at, if only because I hadn't known who Cendence's immediate up-line was).

I knew what I had to do. I turned my lightsaber off and offered a polite obeisance. "Of course. I thank you for your trouble on my behalf, my lord."

The excess of but quite correct politeness surprised Caliqu. I hoped he would call Her Lordship over the holo and get my story from her. If he does, I hoped he would neglect to mention what had happened thus far. I didn't want her hearing about my as-yet-unfinished foray into the world of Sith intrigues.

 **On Fallout**

I was summoned by Lord Caliqu the next morning—or what turned out to be the next morning—for breakfast.

I immediately suspected an attempt to poison me. It would be an efficient way of getting rid of me.

The table was unpleasantly lavish in its contents. Her Lordship insists that meals be palatable but also appropriate to caloric needs. She manages her body like a high-maintenance, high-performance speeder: that is, she works it hard but cares for it with great attention. It's something else she's imprinting on me.

Thus, all the fluffy pastries and I don't know what else seemed excessive to my senses. I sat down at the only other place at the small table and, so as not to be rude, took a piece of fruit once Caliqu tucked in.

"It isn't poisoned, you know—although, I suppose, that's a wise concern to entertain," he observed.

I _looked_ at him and found that he was telling the truth. That is, what I actually perceived as a great interest in me, an alive me, and that I didn't need to worry about subtle death at the moment. I picked up my knife and cut into a piece of fruit, carefully paring it. A lady, according to Her Lordship, does not just chomp into fruit while at table. It helps preserve her lipstick and keep the lipstick off the fruit. It also increases the chance of finding anything unpleasant hidden within with something other than one's mouth.

I slept badly since my position was precarious, but when I did sleep I dreamt of battling Cendence. Somewhat to my surprise, and perhaps it was just a remnant of my life as a Jedi, I'd expected nightmares about it. I was incorrect in my expectations: I kept trying to go back to sleep to relieve that heady battle, waking with a jolt and a gasp each time. It made my blood burn and my skin feel too tight, to the point that I resented my detention.

"I've spoken to my master," Caliqu declared blandly, pouring himself a glass of what looked like juice but was probably alcoholic.

I picked tea, something familiar. I knew Caliqu was watching me, studying my choices as though they could unlock me for him. "I hope your conversation was pleasant, my lord."

"It was insightful," he answered vaguely. "I should like you to recount your history for me."

I did so, omitting nothing salient though guarding those things no Sith lord should hear from the apprentice of another. It felt good to be able to jealously guard Her Lordship's privacy.

"I sense the truth of it," Caliqu announced once I finished.

I thought he might want to retune his sense for truth and lies, if Cendence had been allowed to go as far as he had… but noting this out loud would be stupid.

Caliqu produced a datapad and slid it over to me. I picked it up, felt my face grow warm with anticipation. "I'm sure your master will not refuse you this honor."

Me too, but not because it's signed by a member of the Dark Council. "I look forward to informing her of this development, my lord."

"You're free to go whenever you like. The lockdown on your shuttle has been lifted," Caliqu declared.

I immediately got to my feet and paid him an obeisance. "Thank you, my lord."

"Immediately, then?" he asked, looking taken aback.

"Act always decisively and remember that an enemy never sleeps," I quoted Her Lordship. "And I intend to be _such_ an enemy to those who would weaken our Order."

The answer pleased him, even if it surprised him that I should be so eager to get on it.

 **On Loyalty**

Her Lordship and the Captain were… engaged… when I arrived at the Astral Blight last night. I could only think how it was about damn time… and double check that my end of our bond was properly closed (which it was). I'd been practicing since that night on Taris, and particularly hard because it seemed to me I ought to have been minding my side of the 'door' more attentively.

It was a lazy habit I hadn't realized I had, and one I wanted to be quick in correcting.

They were five minutes late to breakfast. True, they arrived from their respective quarters, both looking as pressed and properly arrayed as always, but they were _late_. I smirked into the breakfast Tuvi served me earlier, trying not to be obvious about it.

Everyone's aura this morning seemed less prickly than usual. If I prodded gently, the underlying burning desire was still there—flowing in both directions—but the immediate frustrations had burned off.

"Good morning, Jaesa," Her Lordship announced as she settled into her customary chair. "And a frilly pastry this morning, Tuvi."

If the droid could have squeaked like an enthusiastic teenaged girl, he would have.

Late to breakfast _and_ a frilly, sugary pastry? They must have had quite the night. I looked at my breakfast, shuffling it around on my plate as I tried desperately not to grin knowingly at Her Lordship.

"So, I see you're back. Shall we keep this Sith discussion for after breakfast or are you willing that Quinn should be party to it now?" Her Lordship asked.

Seeing that I was much pleased with the Captain getting his priorities straight, I didn't mind at all. "Well, I had my meeting with Lord Cendence. It was… interesting."

"Oh?"

"Yes." I half closed my eyes, reliving the experience. "Within moments I realized he was, possibly, the shallowest Sith I ever had the misfortune to meet. Mediocre and average in virtually every respect, he was abusing his mandate to seek out Light Side Sith. Rather, he used his mandate to kill whomever he liked—which always benefitted him in some way, of course—and made use of the ability to tell the dead man's side of the story. I believe that very few of his victims were legitimate targets."

"That does sound like an unpleasant revelation," Her Lordship answered, actually looking surprised.

"It was. He was exceptionally interested in me—and, more particularly, my special power." Bastard. I won't be _used_ by anyone _ever_ again.

"Why wouldn't he be? You're a lovely, powerful woman," Her Lordship declared. "Well worth being noticed."

"I wish _he_ had had more than looks going for him," I answered tartly, which made her chuckle. "You're right when you say that people will excuse just about anything if you're charming and powerful. Unfortunately, he was hardly the former and certainly none of the latter. The only value I saw in him was that of his face and, unfortunately, a pretty face is not enough for excuses to be made when one lacks true charm or real power."

Her Lordship nodded approvingly at this, her expression and aura resonating with pride.

She rarely shows it, and here I haven't even come to the best part!

"My power, then, would unequivocally validate his work. He said that we could literally reorganize the entire power structure of the Sith Order—of the Empire—as we saw fit." I won't deny that the idea was extremely attractive. To have the power to do that… oh. And to an extent I do—though I have more sense, I'd like to think, than the late Cendence.

"Tempting," Her Lordship nodded, sipping her tea as she made room for the frilly pastry Tuvi placed before her with a happy burble. She ignored it in favor of paying attention to me, toying idly with her fork.

"Indeed. And to further entice me… he suggested we start by pointing the finger at you."

The Captain predictably frowned, his cup of caf hitching halfway to his lips. I didn't actually see it, but I think she made use of the hand resting in her lap, for he abandoned evidence of his concerns and brought the cup to his lips—rather hastily I might add*.

"A wise move and a bold one. I'd approve if it weren't directed at me," she answered wryly, but with no trace of expecting trouble from me.

Her faith buoyed me up further. "Well, his opportunities for moves of any sort have dried up a bit," I snickered softly. "He deserved worse than he got: the man wanted me to abuse my gift and betray the one person in the galaxy I trust and respect, to whom I owe my very life. It took every ounce of skill you have instilled in me. Perhaps because of that, it is the most satisfying kill of my young life."

One I happily dropped by Rathari's hideout to celebrate, once I'd dropped my things off here and discovered Her Lordship was… unavailable.

"Don't be that way," Her Lordship responded when I lapsed into silence. "Tell me about the fight." Her grin was wolfish and enthusiastic.

"He was… ferocious," I mused. Suddenly, I felt oddly inhibited by the Captain's presence. The killing seemed much more personal than I wanted to share with him. Still, I was committed. "Honestly, there was a point at which I thought I was done for. But my power… it's beginning to help me innately, the way I see yours assist you. A passive aid as well as an active tactic," I mused, a little surprised by the realization.

" _Excellent_!" Her Lordship encouraged. "More will come more easily, now that you mind knows how to bend. Your training has advanced by a leap."

The thought thrilled me, though I didn't lose sight of my story. "I intuited a feint. Ignoring it, I was able to counter his deathblow and seize the advantage. He made several lovely lumps on the floor." I remembered the way head and body lay, like pieces of a doll and not remnants of a living man. Something about the mental image… dissatisfied me. "I don't think I like lightsabers for this sort of work," I declared. It's one thing for wholesale slaughter when efficiency is needed. But when efficiency _isn't_ the goal… "When it's personal and close. They cauterize as they cut. I would have enjoyed the blood."

The Captain made a dissatisfied noise, but Her Lordship understood. She always does. "There should always be something personal when a matter _is_ personal. There are very few pleasures greater than that moment in which you have mastery over a worthy enemy and hold his life in your hands. Particularly when _he_ recognizes it."

I don't know how _worthy_ an enemy Cendence was; he was a decent swordsman, though, I'll give him that. "Believe me, my lord, I intend to seek them out." I knew better than to hint anything about her and the Captain. She'd want to know if I'd 'broken another one' and she doesn't know with whom I'm… liaising. I don't know if she'd approve. "And I will, with your permission, be in a prime position from which to do so." I produced the datapad from where it leaned against my chair. "The Dark Council's emissary, a man named Caliqu, was present. He was the one holding Lord Cendence's leash. He offered me Cendence's mandate," I handed the document to her. "As I sense Light-leaning Sith, I report them to him and, when possible… _remedy_ the situation."

"Your dream come true," Her Lordship answered, burning with that quiet pride that's so heard to earn, but which she never withholds when it _is_ earned. "And a well-deserved distinction." She handed the mandate back to me once she finished scanning it.

"I'll make you proud, my master," I appended.

She only smiled in that complacent, self-satisfied way of her. An apprentice is a reflection on the master: any luster or honor conveyed upon me is reflected back at her, the one who saw the talent, trained it, honed it. She's one who knows how to graciously accept such a reflection.

"There is… one more thing…" I shifted, feeling oddly self-conscious in front of the Captain. This time, I stalled.

He seemed to catch it and, as he'd finished breakfast—since he didn't lose efficiency in eating by participating in conversation—bid Her Lordship's good morning and withdrew.

I didn't miss how her gaze followed him as he left; she still looked predatory as she watched, but some of the feral hunger was gone, leaving only that which hunts for the sheer pleasure of it—which, in itself, is a temporary satisfaction, something requiring repetition.

"What is it you wanted to say, Jaesa?" Her Lordship asked, once the Captain was gone.

I shifted uncomfortably, knowing it was too late to back out and, suddenly, afraid of wiping out the pride I'd managed to elicit from her. "…I have become aware that my appreciation of you puts me at odds with a precept of the Sith way." I shifted again, feeling oddly young and insecure. "It is expected that an apprentice eventually rebel against her master… but you'll never have to worry about that from me."

"I won't bind you to that, of course… but thank you, Jaesa," she replied graciously.

"Of course. Well… that was it." And glad I was to be done with the talk.

-J-

Author's Note: At one point, it was considered basic good manners to keep your unused hand in your lap.


	42. Chapter 42

**Belsavis, Part I**

The thing I really noticed about the Captain now that he and Her Lordship were a thing (something which disgusted Pierce) was that he didn't seem quite so rigid when he sat beside Her Lordship—which he made it a point to do consistently. Oh, his posture was still fantastic but there was something more relaxed about it.

Her Lordship seemed content with the alteration to routine: it was enough that he actively sought her company, even if only to make himself a permanent fixture on her left side during mealtimes. He eats left-handed, and won't stand for rubbing elbows at the table. It impedes the efficiency of getting food from plate to mouth.

The holoterminal chirped as I finished my hot, fruit-filled cereal. "I'll get it," I waved when the Captain made to get up.

Opening the channel revealed Servant One and Servant Two. "My lords."

Her Lordship joined me immediately, inclining her head politely as I stepped away. "I take it you've found me a target?" she demanded without preamble.

" _You are to go to the planet Belsavis,_ " Servant One announced. " _It was, until recently, a well-kept Republic secret._ "

"What kind of secret?" Her Lordship asked, taking the coordinates that Servant One pinged us, then handing them over to the Captain, who bowed and marched off to the cockpit to load them into the computers and plot a course.

" _The dangerous kind_ ," Servant Two smiled. " _The disappeared reappear._ "

I shivered inwardly. Servant Two makes me nervous. I wouldn't want to run into him down a dark alley. I wouldn't want to deal with him without Her Lordship present. There's something really not right about that guy, as Vette said.

" _The kind that would tarnish their… illustrious reputation,_ " Servant One answered, a cold smile curving his lips at the Republic being exposed to its own members as being as flawed or corrupt as anyone else. " _It's a prison-world. A dumping ground for the very dangerous—and the criteria for 'dangerous' is quite expansive. Everything from prisoners of war the Republic didn't want to give up, the standard refuse too violent for normal prison systems… even a few Sith Lords and their adherents._ "

"Then this place _is_ well hidden."

" _Even from the Hand, until recently. Someone, somewhere, leaked the prison manifests._ "

"You suspect one of Baras' plants?"

I do.

" _I suspect no one. The fact remains,_ " Servant One answered simply. " _The delay in sending you has been time for Imperial Armed Forces to 'discover' the world and begin campaigns upon it. Ostensibly, they're there to free prisoners and destabilize the Republic's hold on the place. The Republic will waste resources trying to keep all the prisoners planet-bound. In actuality, the chaos is a double blind. Firstly, it allows Baras to discreetly recover a set of prisoners. Secondly, it allows you to go in and prevent this rescue._ "

" _The blood of the betrayer must be spilt,_ " Servant Two declared.

"Baras has _family_?" Her Lordship asked.

I had to choke down the exact same question. A good apprentice doesn't speak unless addressed during a conversation like this. Still, the idea of Baras having kin was just… ugh. I'll bet this relation is every bit as big a piece of work as he is. Which begs the question of why Baras wants someone of his own ilk slinking around.

" _Perhaps you even know of her: Darth Ekkage,_ " Servant One shrugged.

Her Lordship blinked, then snorted softly in surprise. "Formerly of the Dark Council. She'll be wanting her seat back. Rictus', I believe."

That won't do much for the Empire's stability. Ekkage would gain much if Baras was recognized as the Voice. And you can bet if Baras wants to break her out, then there's more she brings to the table than a supporting voice on the Dark Council.

Rictus, Rictus… he's Sphere of Mysteries.

" _She was also leader of an elite band of infiltrators—hence why I said 'set of prisoners.'_ _Your task is to render Ekkage harmless,_ " Servant One intoned.

"An appropriate place to start."

Striking at family to get to someone else. Somehow, though, I doubt it will be as effective as it was against me, or against Her Lordship. She told me to watch how she dealt with Grathan, but I haven't seen anything beyond the assassins she slaughtered at the funeral… and the secondary benefit of killing Moff Broysc, which was weakening Grathan's power base…

No, Grathan is just on a back burner. I know things aren't resolved, therefore they aren't over.

" _You will find allies already on the surface. They know to expect you and will aid you as they can,_ " Servant One concluded.

"Understood."

The holocall cut off. "Take us out, Captain," Her Lordship called, rolling her shoulders.

The ship quivered when we dropped into hyperspace.

"It looks like things are about to get very interesting," Her Lordship smiled before sauntering into her own room.

It looks like.

 **Belsavis, Part II**

Belsavis was chaotic. War zones are more orderly than the seething mass of Imperial and Republic soldiers, loose inmates and prison personnel, and kilo after kilo of droids. We got a good look at the mess as the Captain pulled the _Astral Blight_ in, landing us as close to the Imperial command post as possible.

"Stay here," Her Lordship declared to Vette and Broonmark as she adjusted the drape of the scarlet sleeveless robe she now wore over her working clothes. "I don't want this ship left unattended. Broonmark, please kill anyone _not_ Imperial Armed Forces who gets too close. Leave the bodies where they fall."

Because, of course, Imperial Armed Forces won't mess with a Sith's things.

Broonmark laughed. " _We hope to make large statements for_ _Sith-clan_."

Vette looked from me, to the Captain, to Pierce, to Her Lordship. "Are you sure you don't need me?"

"I need you to remain here and ensure that no one crosses that threshold," Her Lordship answered. "You got all Baras' bugs; I won't have some lucky agent of his recognizing me and taking advantage of the ship's being unwatched."

"Right, m'lord," Vette nodded, expression pulling into dutiful seriousness.

We disembarked into the bright Belsavis sun. Well, it was bright here. Belsavis was a curious world because _technically_ it's an ice ball like Hoth. However, unlike Hoth, Belsavis has some pretty spectacular geothermal activity, resulting in bands and pockets of habitable space. True, this meant a very sulfurous smell in the air, but it also meant fairly pretty surroundings. Everything was just… so _colorful_!

Imperial Armed Forces had taken an outpost of the Belsavis prison complex. With rioting prisoners and active skirmishes between Empire and Republic, the outpost was securely held. Unfortunately, the Empire wasn't actually gaining territory, either. Interspersed with Imperials in their grey uniforms were Mandalorians in their heavy armor, freelancers either hired for specific jobs or hoping to be picked up, and Sith.

More interesting was the fellow in red who made a beeline for us. His robes were definitely working garments, but slightly more elaborate than 'just work clothes.' Given how people moved out of his way, he was clearly someone of consequence.

Then I remembered _where_ I'd seen his attire before: it was the fashion of the guards at the Academy on Korriban—except unlike them, this fellow didn't wear a helmet or veil or anything to obscure his identity. His robes were the same color as those Her Lordship wore, but without the copper embroidery. He carried a small vibrosword at his hip, a blaster rifle across his back, and in his hand—at the moment more like a symbol than a weapon—a electrostaff. The sweep of his robes would obscure any number of additional small weapons.

"My lord Wrath," the man in red bowed deeply.

"You already know me?" she didn't sound surprised, merely… interested.

The man chuckled deep in his chest, flinty eyes glittering. "In our corps, one knows our supreme master's friends and enemies alike. And you, my lord, stand highly in his esteem. I am Commander Calum," he inclined his head again.

I didn't miss that others around paused to examine this unusual display of deference.

I frowned at him, reached out, just barely tapping at him. He didn't blink, didn't seem to realize what I'd done—not unusual, but it's reassuring to learn with each new use that it really is undetectable. His mind was shielded by darkness, an impenetrable shell set squarely in place to prevent any and all outside influence. No one was getting through that… and although quite different it reminded me of the darkness behind Servants One and Two.

"Commander Calum, my apprentice Jaesa. Jaesa, Commander Calum belongs to the Emperor's Guards," Her Lordship clarified, sounding quite offhanded.

I took this as a cue to be polite. "My lord."

Calum chuckled, clearly amused and not at all offended. "Not exactly."

Her Lordship pressed gently against my mind, impressing the idea that she would explain later.

"The Hand tasked me with organizing the removal of some particularly noteworthy prisoners," Calum reported. "And I know which one you're after: our mutual friend sent one of his faithful flunkies, Lord Melicoste, to fetch her. She, herself, is deep in the prison, beyond where our Imperial forces have managed to push. Push and hold, in any meaningful sense," he corrected himself. "The only people with real footholds out there, beyond the Republic, are freelancers and Mandalorians or the prisoners themselves. Your contact here is Col. Trill, that way." He indicated the nearest structure, which had several guards standing out front. "She'll know about the Imperial side of the operation. Melicoste definitely departed with a unit."

"What kind of officer is she?" Her Lordship frowned.

Calum gave her a look bearing nothing but a sort of trained patience with regards to the subject in question. He wasn't Sith, but apparently he was closer to them than to the Imperial Armed Forces and shared some of the same attitudes. "Typical, but possibly hand-picked for heading this operation. You might find dealing with her second, Capt. Oklart, more productive."

"Understood, thank you Commander."

"My lord." He bowed again, then strode off, disappearing into the crowd. Again, people parted to allow him to pass unhampered.

"Pierce? Begin the search for your man."

"M'lord." With that and a brisk salute, Pierce, armored and ready should Her Lordship decide she needed his presence in the field, headed off, accosting the first officer junior to himself.

"The Emperor's Guards are never Force sensitive," Her Lordship informed me as we walked toward the command post Calum indicated. "The Emperor hand-choses them, then gives them his blessing. No, I don't know what that actually means. I do know this: there is no record, not one, of a member of the Imperial Guard _ever_ betraying the Emperor. They are believed to be utterly incorruptible in their loyalty."

In the world of Sith intrigues… that's saying a lot. Then again, I suppose the Emperor would need that kind of die-hard fanatic, that loyalty, to keep him a couple extra steps ahead of the usual Sith intrigues. Otherwise, he'd have been replaced by now, making the Jedi succession theory true.

"They're immune to Sith tricks, fanatics even before the Emperor takes them into his direct service. You see them at Korriban," she smiled wickedly, "because they are enough to give any one member the Dark Council more than just pause. Even if there was a full scale _riot_ at the Academy, the Guardsmen could make a significant dent in it before it went too far—or keep it contained until the ones off-world arrived to aid in restoring order."

It makes me wonder why Baras hasn't been dispatched… but maybe it needs a little more ceremony than the Guardsmen can give. Maybe they need a Voice confirming their actions in situations like this.

"Oh…" I breathed, shaking my head. I'd come to appreciate that most Sith looked down on non-Sensitives. This formidable reputation made me think of the contradiction in the Empire about aliens: aliens were second class citizens (unless they were lucky or really unlucky) but Purebloods were among the elite of society before they ever proved themselves—alien though they were.

"Yes."

From the way she talked… I couldn't help thinking that a member of the Imperial Guard was one person she wouldn't want to tangle with. Not even her, excellent swordsman that she is.

 **Belsavis, Part III**

Calum wasn't wrong when he said that Col. Trill was a 'typical' officer and probably one of Baras' hand-picked stooges. In spite of her (and the Captain's) repugnance toward killing Imperial soldiers over Sith intrigues, Her Lordship dispatched Trill in short order, leaving Capt. Oklart (who did a little brown-nosing the first chance he got) in charge with the Captain—our Captain—once more playing military liaison.

As on Taris, the atmosphere was humid, resulting in the necessity of carrying a water supply with us. Thankfully, the Captain was as good as his word after Taris: he'd acquired a Bith variety of ration, pink cubes called 'bepps.' They were flavorless, as we discovered, but it was 'flavorless' or nasty Imperial ration bars. I found the texture reminiscent of ice cream, only not cold, not melt-able, and without flavor.

Sigh. I suppose field food is a discipline no matter who makes it. Still, better the bepps than the ration bars, _especially_ since the bepps didn't make you incredibly thirsty. In the hot, humid environment of Belsavis, it would have been unbearable.

It was the late Commander Kaid who kindly directed us to a records room in the actual prison complex.

Cool and less humid than outside, the smell of sulfur lingered; fortunately, one could get used to the smell of sulfur.

The architecture of the prison complex puzzled me: it wasn't something I'd expect from the Republic (though they'd painted large portions with their colors and symbols); it had some slight resemblance to Imperial structures, being heavy and built to last… but there were little somethings I couldn't quite put my finger on that said it certainly wasn't Imperial construction.

So if it's not Republic or Imperial architecture, whose is it? Because what looked like duracrete didn't actually _feel_ like duracrete. The texture was finer, more like sandstone than duracrete.

"Damnation," Her Lordship growled, sniffing. As it turned out, she was mildly allergic to Belsavis, which left her fighting back sniffles and the occasional sneeze ever since we got out of the Imperial outpost. I'll say this much, the bloodshot eyes made her look even scarier than she usually does, the heavy greasepaint around them drawing attention to the color.

Someone destroyed the door controls that would open the records room. From the looks of it by blaster fire, which meant either the Empire or the Republic tried to seal the place off. If the Republic, to keep the records confidential. If the Empire… I'd blame Melicoste, as one can't be too careful. He wouldn't want the off chance of being followed to bite him.

It was a valid concern. Fortunately—or unfortunately—Her Lordship and I are tenacious.

Her Lordship unclipped one lightsaber from her belt and jammed it in the seam between the door and the doorframe, putting her weight behind it. The weapon didn't make much progress, no matter how hard she leaned into it. Upon pulling back, she'd managed a small dent, like an impact crater with melted edges. "Someone designed this place to last," she said disgustedly, stepping away and lifting her hands. "Makes you wonder what they were trying to keep in."

The Force rippled around her but, although she got a grip on the door, it didn't seem to matter.

"Most people wouldn't want to," I answered. I found it interesting that she assumed 'keep in' rather than 'keep out,' since this was only repurposed into a prison in recent history.

Suddenly, a 'thump-thump-thump' sounded from inside the records room.

I reached out, discovered a smidge of presence on the other side—someone trying to keep a low profile. I knew it for what it was, though, and found my lip curling with disgust. "Jedi," I said softly, jerking my chin at the doors.

"Hello out there!" I knew without doubt, without actually looking, that it belonged to a Jedi. It was too annoying not to, being high and incredibly nasal. "A word please?"

"Or several," Her Lordship called back. "As you like." She rolled her shoulders, grimacing. I knew why: Jedi in there, she's stuck out here, and there's no telling why he's here or whether he's done anything to the computers inside. Whether he knows it or not, he might just have her by the hair and that's not a position she takes kindly.

"I am Jedi Master Somminick Timmns."

I knew it. Jedi. Didn't I say as much?

"I'm aware," Her Lordship answered blandly.

A humorless laugh from the other side of the door. "I know you, too, Sith. I was once Master Karr's Padawan. I know what you did to him."

"Karr… Karr. You know, I believe the name is vaguely familiar to me…" She grinned at me, winking as I suppressed snickers. "Where could I have heard it before…?"

"Stop pretending," Timmns said darkly from the other side.

"In that case, I'm not at all sorry I missed the funeral."

Ouch.

"Surprise, there was nothing to miss," Timmns answered sardonically. "Ever since you confronted him and destroyed Jaesa Willsaam, the Jedi Council has been keeping tabs on you."

I almost laughed out loud. Such a delicate way of putting it. I was tempted to ask whether they thought I was dead or if this was simply the traditional way of referring to a fallen Jedi. I have noticed, retroactively, that while Jedi say a Jedi is 'destroyed' when they fall, they _never_ say a Sith is 'destroyed' when he turns to the light—he just 'turns from the Dark Side.' Interesting little bit of insight.

…in fact, he doesn't seem to realize I'm here, not as belonging to that name, anyway. Interesting… I wonder if he likes surprises.

"I hope I've kept them entertained." The sentiment expressed doubt… but accepted the possibility that he wasn't bluffing.

I doubted he was. The Jedi Council _would_ want to keep tabs on Her Lordship. She's powerful, dangerous, she killed Master Yonlach and broke _the_ Nomen Karr. She saved me, took me away from that awful life they think is so fabulous and led Imperial troops to decisive victory on Taris while chewing her way through the War Trust. She (regrettably) destroyed Master Yonlach, (less regrettably) Xerender, and helped destroy Darth Vengean. Countless Sith and Jedi alike have fallen before her. Now she's in the direct service of the Emperor himself, as close to ultimate power as she can get and the first thing she's supposed to do? Kill two Dark Council members as soon as she can get close enough to do it.

And she's _just_ getting started.

"We know you've broken away from Darth Baras. We also know you're here to stop the attempt to rescue Darth Ekkage."

Her Lordship's expression thinned, then eased back into sardonic amusement. "Hmm. It seems that some housekeeping is in order. I'd check your ranks for traitors, Jedi. Baras has lots of fingers in a great many pies."

Probably seeded after I left; else he'd probably have had them assassinate me, or had better intel to provide Her Lordship to facilitate her search for me. I find it unlikely that there are as many Jedi in the Sith ranks. Light-leaning Sith, yes, but that doesn't make them Jedi agents or even sympathizers.

"I'll take it under advisement," Timmns answered dryly. "You should be aware by now that the door is fused. Even I haven't been able to push my way out."

"I had noticed something to that effect. I also noticed the controls were destroyed by blaster fire. Penned up by Imperial soldiers? For shame, Jedi," Her Lordship said, clicking her tongue in mock reproof.

Fused doors _and_ destroyed controls _and_ a Jedi trapped inside? Melicoste wasn't taking _any_ chances, was he? I don't know whether to be annoyed or impressed. Maybe I can be both.

"I don't know, there _were_ a lot of them," Timmns mused.

"If he's here for Ekkage as well, then it's likely he'll destroy the records we need," I breathed to Her Lordship.

"Yes, making himself valuable, buying time to figure out how to fulfill his mission and survive us," she breathed back. "I have the feeling he's going to annoy me a great deal before this is over."

"So much the worse for him."

Her mouth twisted into a genuine smile. "If you couldn't stop Melicoste—or his soldiers—you're better off where you are. This confrontation could get truly ugly. Tell me where he is and I'll handle your mission for you."

"So I can slowly starve to death in here, comforted by the thought that Sith are killing each other?" the Jedi sneered.

"It sounds even better when _you_ say it."

I snorted, covering my mouth to stifle the laugh that followed. It does sound like a great plan.

"Pass," Timmns said stoically. "You want the files? You have to get in here. There's a failsafe force-field; you need it disabled. Once that's done, the two of us striking the door from opposite sides should break the seal formed by the door's fusion."

"And I suppose you know how to disable this force-field?" Her Lordship asked. The likelihood of having to work with this Jedi was even less appealing to her than to me. It touches the pride, and Her Lordship is very proud.

"I have a few guesses. There are generators feeding power into the field. Knock out enough and the field should fail."

"Sit tight. I'll be right back."

"Not to worry, I won't be going _anywhere_." And, with that, Timmns began to whistle to himself.

…I hate him already…

"He really isn't getting out of there on his own." Her Lordship nodded for me to walk with her. "I'm beginning to think it will be a true pity to lose Lord Melicoste. Even for someone taking no chances, he's doing a _remarkably_ thorough job," Her Lordship mused, genuinely impressed.

"Do you think he can be diverted?" I asked.

"Doubtful. If he's here, handling this mission, it means he's Baras' creature to the very core."

"Many people thought that about you, once." There was a time when I'd have apologized for saying such a thing out loud, but apparently now wasn't that time anymore.

"True, though _I_ wouldn't have turned on him until someone could begin by offering me the same benefits; if they couldn't do that, how could they offer more? I'm rather mercenary that way." The Sith could do with more mercenary leanings of that kind. Take Draahg for instance; he'll turn on Baras (or try to) at first opportunity in the hopes of getting Baras' leftovers. Her Lordship would have turned on Baras, as she said, if doing so offered her comparable gain. What she didn't say was 'comparable gain _in addition to_ Baras' leftovers.' "My new position has not been recognized by the Dark Council. Until then, many Sith will be content to believe I'm lying."

"How many Sith would lie about… oh, yes. Baras is lying about worse." I bit my lip as Her Lordship raised a hand. A generator we were passing immediately crunched into a tight ball, snapping and sparking.

"You have the next one. How will this Jedi handle Ekkage?"

I considered, sending lightning arcing towards the next generator I spotted. It exploded _spectacularly_. "Put her back in her cage. Even towards the most dangerous Sith, most Jedi have weak bowels. All life is important, that sort of thing. They have no sense of prudence." It's a view I entertained even when I was training to be a Jedi. If Melicoste can get down here, can free Ekkage, then there's no reason, not one, to believe there will be another rescue, and another, and another until she's recovered.

It's safer to simply remove her from the equation, especially given the kind of game we're playing.

"I wonder how this Jedi intends to reestablish the security Melicoste—and we—will have to get through." Another generator exploded at a gesture.

"I honestly don't think he's got beyond 'when the Republic reasserts control…'" I answered scornfully. "If he's Karr's Padawan—or was—do you think he shares the same flaws?"

"Possibly but unlikely. Karr, you remember, moved among the Sith long enough and well enough to bring some of the Dark Side back with him. Whatever his failings, he understood at least superficially both sides of the Force. I doubt this Jedi has the same experiences, thus it's unlikely he'll have the same exploitability."

"Will you try to bring him into the fold?"

Her Lordship chuckled. "And liberate _two_ of Karr's Padawans? That might leave Karr thinking he's important."

"Insult to injury," I shrugged idly. I didn't really care; I just wanted to air that I was paying attention, that I've been learning, and have given all the peripheral matters around this central idea due attention. How would she know if I don't tell her?

"We'll see. Conversion to the Dark Side is a delicate, highly individualized process. You were already desperate to free yourself from your shackles. Timmns, in all likelihood, doesn't recognize his own bondage. He's probably even grateful for it—you know how Jedi are conditioned."

I nodded.

"I would have to get under Timmns's skin, into his head, plant seeds that take time to grow, spreading their corrupting influence. Conversion to the Dark Side takes time—sometimes more, sometimes less. Too many Sith fail to recognize this. Patience is a virtue. Even Sith have virtues."

It seems to me the best Sith have patience in spades. It just depends on whether one is judging their short-term game or their long-term game as to whether one sees it. It also seems to me that the short-term plans are the ones that most frequently blow up, cause a fuss, make it necessary to divert attention to the immediate issue. Thus, the long-term plans stay vague and nebulous to an onlooker until one day they clunk into place.

Rather like what Baras has done.

"I will give you a quote from one of Uncle Tim's favorite books. _Dahdee_ approved of it too, though not strictly or literally. ' _The strong ones are patient._ _Patience means holding back your inclination to the seven_ _emotions: hate, adoration, joy, anxiety, anger, grief, fear_.' You'd be amazed how great a chasm even a second of patience can represent."

I notice 'love' isn't there. Adoration is something quite different. "Act, don't react." The enjoinder came back to me like a smack, unexpected and abrupt.

"Precisely."

Wow. The Jedi got something right. That would explain why the best Sith are about letting emotion build. They sit on it. They think on it. They let it accumulate because they don't act on it right away. Blind rages are a sign of weakness, not strength, however much they give a temporary power boost. There are sacrifices made to gain that boost.

Even when Her Lordship found herself in the throes of grieving anger… she pulled it all in, made a plan, then followed through in cold blood. She didn't just tear off and start throwing her weight around like an angry bull-nerf.

It seems to me that Baras is like that, too. Even when he was so touchy on Hoth, I'm sure his immediate works back on Dromund Kaas were approached with patience. And consider this: he's managed to sequester the Emperor's true Voice. How much patience, how much subtle manipulation, did that take? He didn't move—couldn't have moved—precipitously; he continued the patience game. It makes me wonder how many years—decades?—Baras has been nudging things into place.

Who would have thought I had something to learn from Baras' example? He may be scum, but he's quite the object lesson.

"It doesn't sound like Sith philosophy. And yet…" I shook my head, marveling.

"And yet it's represented by the very best of us. The best Sith, Jaesa, are the ones who can let go and rise above standard education. Korriban provides a framework. Only the best can successfully move beyond it. It's why they're the best: they can sort out what works from what they've been told works."

I've seen it. Thana on Taris was powerful… but she lacked patience; she lacked the ability to use violence as a tool rather than a crutch; she couldn't make her emotions truly work for her, she just waved them around like a child with a sword and a temper. She might have been powerful, but she was truly weak.

Patience lets a Sith weather the little storms so they can deal with the big ones. It's something to ruminate on further, once we're back on the _Astral Blight_. Maybe I'll ask Her Lordship about this book.

-J-

*James Clavell, _Shogun_

 **Belsavis, Part IV**

Master Timmns was Mirialan, and a little younger than I expected.

I loved it, the way he prowled out of the records vault so cautiously. For a moment he missed me, preferring to focus on Her Lordship. However, when she didn't strike him down, he expanded his focus.

He should be embarrassed: I could have killed him while he investigated Her Lordship.

For a brief moment he blinked at me, not having realized I was there. His expression pulled into the consternation of one who almost recognizes a face (and who is also embarrassed about missing such an obvious presence in his surroundings). Then his face opened up, flowering into full realization of what he saw before him.

Or, rather, who. I found myself grinning at him, teeth bared and not at all friendly.

"You-you're Jaesa Willsaam, aren't you?" Timmns asked, utterly dumbfounded. Apparently when he said 'destroyed' everyone assumed 'dead.'

Surprise. "I used to be."

Her Lordship chuckled softly, her amusement and appreciation for the subtle joke rippling in the air around us. She likes subtle jokes, therefore I'm learning that art as well as all the others.

Timmns was less amused as he cast a nasty look at Her Lordship before giving me the patronizing expression I hated most while among the Jedi.

Now, it just made me feel amusedly complacent—it doesn't mean anything, I don't answer to him, I don't have to choke down and swallow all the benign bantha shit the Jedi are so fond of shoveling at their students and each other.

"I see. So, no regrets then, about teaming up with this… rogue?"

"She was never one of you so I can say nothing about that," I answered with pert sweetness.

He missed the joke, but Her Lordship did not. I'm not usually so quick with less concrete openings for them. Huh. I really am getting better.

"And how _is_ Master Karr?" Her Lordship asked, her apparent good humor putting a purr in her tone.

Timmns' aura yanked tight, pain lacing it. He pulsed with stifled emotion—rage, loathing, the need to bring this Sith down a few pegs… fear of the strong emotions Her Lordship yanked to the surface so easily using five little words and some delicate inflection. He didn't try to button his emotions up; instead, he wrestled them into a suitcase and sat on them. The case would spring open once his weight no longer held it closed.

Pitiful.

"He was returned to us, you know. But he hasn't been the same since losing Jaesa. And he no longer communes with the Force."

I didn't care one little bit; in fact, I was shocked how little I cared. It sounded, to me, like he was _sulking_. He couldn't have the big grand destiny he'd plotted—utilizing _my_ power—so he wouldn't do anything at all. "How true to character," I noted. "Take away his toy and he _pouts_."

Timmn's nose wrinkled, as though I'd shoved something smelly under it.

The truth hurts. Trust me.

"Jaesa, will you chat with this gentleman while I see how badly he's damaged the records," Her Lordship asked. Then, to Timmns when I inclined my head in respectful acquiescence, "You might find it enlightening."

"I somehow doubt that."

"Sounds to me like you're worried you might learn something. I thought there was no ignorance." I offered innocently.

"I'm immune to her games and I'm certainly immune to your… cantrips," Timmns answered patronizingly, looking me up and down, his already thin mouth twisting into an even thinner line.

"We'll see." Then, as if the thought only just occurred to me, "I think it's interesting. Master Karr wouldn't let me within ten lightyears of Her Lordship. Yes she's content to leave me to chat with you unsupervised."

After a few brief seconds, and as if he couldn't quite contain himself, "What did she promise you?"

I was glad he did. It's no fun if he won't make conversation. "Nothing. The power you Jedi wanted to exploit? She doesn't need it. She doesn't _want_ it. It's mine to use as _I_ see fit. She proves it to me every single time it would be useful, every time it comes up. Actions speak so loudly, Jedi. You'd be amazed."

"And Master Yonlach? Your parents?"

I closed my eyes. "Master Yonlach was a Jedi, my master is Sith. As to my parents… since I wasn't allowed to intervene, Karr should have protected them better. One Jedi Knight was all he sent, when he had proof that one Jedi Knight wasn't enough to even slow Her Lordship down—she'd already slain Master Yonlach by that point _and_ the Knight who was with him. I suffered because he and Baras had to have their pissing contest, and Karr didn't take it seriously enough." I felt strangely at peace with this knowledge, despite the increasing bitter sharpness in my tone. "You don't blame the lightsaber for the lives it takes, and hers fell quickly. Cleanly." For my parents, at least.

"Very poetic."

"Where is the logic assailable?"

Timmns didn't get to answer, if he even had one. Her Lordship reappeared and he hiked on a condescending smile.

"Have you enlightened yourself?" she asked smoothly, though I knew she was annoyed with him.

"Just admiring the solidity of your brainwashing," Timmns answered pertly. "The idolization is nauseating. You have exploitation down to an art."

Idolization? Exploitation? Hardly. I admire Her Lordship and look to her example. I mean, good grief, look at the results _she's_ achieved. Clearly her ways _work_. And I want to succeed. I spent too much time being average, then too much time being made much of for something I just happened to have rather than for myself. Why shouldn't she benefit from my gift?

The thoughts left a bad taste in my mouth, resulting in a curling of my lip and a deepening sense of disdain for Timmns _and_ his stupid Order.

"I hardly think Jedi are ones to talk about brainwashing," I answered offhandedly, moving to stand beside Her Lordship. "Oh, but they don't. I'm sure they have a prettier word for it. _Conditioning_ , perhaps."

That wiped the smile of Timmns' face, replacing it with the same distaste I felt for him. Glad we're all on the same page. The varying degrees of misery love company.

"Now, to business. I noted the condition of the computers." Her Lordship observed.

"I _thought_ I smelled smoke just before you let me out…" Timmns beamed patronizingly at her.

"No doubt. So I take it the location of Darth Ekkage's cell is all in your little green head?"

"Sometimes the safest place to keep things like that," Timmns responded, disgust morphing to smugness. He knows she can't just dig it out. "It seems our goals are one, even if our _motives_ differ. I suggest a partnership."

Naturally. He sneers at the strength of a Sith even as he coopts is.

 _There may be no need for partnership,_ I pushed across our bond. I can probably find the hidden thing using my power.

Her Lordship caught it deftly, then tossed it back. _Don't bother. He may yet be cannon fodder_.

"Naturally. Jedi like to use strength that doesn't belong to them," I noted acidly, wondering if Timmns noticed the nonverbal exchange.

Timmns opened his mouth—apparently _not_ having noticed—but Her Lordship held up a hand. "I'm afraid there's no getting around it, Jaesa. Hash things out with him if you like, but let's not bog down our objective. We're on a timetable."

I bowed my head deferentially. I forgot about that, let Timmns and his very existence distract me. I need to read that book she mentioned, find out more about this definition of patience.

"Darth Ekkage is kept in the Deep Prison. I'll keep the finer details to myself," Timmns said, striding between Her Lordship and me like an exceptionally smug cat. I didn't miss the unsaid portion of his sentence: ' _I can give you my back because you can't do a thing to me—I've got something you need._ '

Smug little Joiner, isn't he? It also made me wonder if looking with my gift would have done any good: the name, Deep Prison, meant nothing to me. Knowing where a thing is and knowing how to get there are, after all, two different things. It was something to chew on.

"However, I'll offer you a gesture of good faith."

"I _don't_ appreciate dramatic pauses," Her Lordship answered, the acid in her tone mild… but it got the point across.

"Darth Ekkage isn't the only objective your friends have here. Her elite assassins are here too; too useful to pass up. Best if they can't rejoin their mistress; I know you're not fussy about how you ensure things like that," Timmns declared, a mix of dismissal and sardonic lack of humor in his tone. It was quite the mix for a Jedi to cook up and throw at someone.

I had to wonder about Darth Ekkage, what kind of Sith she was. Oh, make no mistake if she's in Baras' family tree she's dangerous, treacherous, and just plain troublesome. I'll bet confinement hasn't improved her. As she sounds like a typical Sith, it makes me wonder about her assassins. I'm sure they're diehard zealots, blindly devoted to her. Still… I wonder how someone like Baras (and, presumably, Ekkage) manages to inspire that kind of devotion.

"Nervous?" Her Lordship asked sweetly.

"Not particularly," Timmns shrugged. "You might be able to get them to back down without a fight, if they're out already. Me? Not so much."

"A Jedi without a death wish," I murmured, as if to myself but clearly for Timmns' benefit, "what a rarity."

"And it keeps his hands so lily-white. As befits a member of his Order," Her Lordship agreed nastily, though her tone was as courteous as ever.

Timmns, with a pained look at me and my smart mouth, gave Her Lordship the coordinates. "And my holo-frequency. Call me when you're done, then we'll take the next step." He moved to leave then stopped, turning on his heel. "It really will take both of us to face Ekkage." In this, at least, he sounded convinced.

"But of us _maybe_ ," I growled once he was out of sight. But Ekkage is no Master Wyellett, the only real overmatch for Her Lordship I ever saw. The memory of those last events on Hoth made me shudder.

"That one is going to take his petty amusements where he can," Her Lordship grimaced as she began to walk. "I know his type."

"He'll pay for his fun later," I agreed, trying to sound confident, not just nettled and out of temper.

"Make no mistake," Her Lordship agreed in a funereal tone. "Come. Let's find these assassins. The nearer to her release we can attack Ekkage, the greater her disadvantage."

"You don't think we can get there before Melicoste?"

"He's got too much of a head start. Even if he didn't, with that Jedi leading us around on a string? No. This ends in a fight, Jaesa. Fortunately, it will be you and me versus Melicoste and Ekkage. Consider it an upcoming bench test of your skills."

I didn't think she left Timmns out because we would kill him before reaching Ekkage; I think she left Timmns out because she didn't think much of his abilities. Or maybe of his guts. I could hear him now, bleating at us to spare Ekkage and put her back in her cell.

As if that really _solves_ anything. It occurred to me that Jedi really aren't effective problem solvers; they're just fixers for what they can see in the immediate. They handle symptoms, not causes.

"I look forward to the experience," I answered primly.

Unlike so many people, she didn't make remarks about how the results better be of interest to her, or about cockiness. She took it on faith, knowing what I know about Sith apprentices reflecting on their masters, not to let my quest for new experiences interfere with the mission.


	43. Chapter 43

**Belsavis, Part V**

The detention block housing Ekkage's assassins was, fittingly enough, tomb-like. Quiet and lit minimally, it was clear the prisoners here were kept incapacitated and were _never_ supposed to get out. This was an _oubliette_ , a place with one way in and one way out, where people were put to be forgotten. The darkness was thick, seeming to watch as living, breathing entities moved through it. The very air felt dead, revitalized only by the addition of living breath from the intruders currently disrupting it; it would be truly dead again once we living folk were gone.

"—by Darth Baras on behalf of Darth Ekkage," one of the Imperials explained, his voice echoing a little in the empty spaces. His tone was low, as if afraid to make too much noise; perhaps the darkness unnerved him. The torches the Imperials carried pushed the shadows back… but the shadows seemed thicker, malignant almost, as if they only waited for an opportunity to rush forward and swallow up the invading lights.

Whoever designed this place was a _genius_.

Three Sith stood, or rather slumped, leaning against the nearest solid objects, blearily facing their Imperial rescuers. One was particularly bulky, another taller and slender, and the third quite small. Of the three, the small one's hood was pushed back, revealing a bald head and clean-shaven face. I thought I saw shadows of tattoos across his scalp, but it might have been a trick of my eyes… or the light.

I _looked_ at the nearest one, the small one.

 _Wooziness, fear, an aching, gnawing dread at feeling so powerless… certain knowledge that his 'mistress' would take it out of his hide even though he'd fallen to buy her time to escape. Too valuable to destroy, but she had her ways and he_ _hated_ _her… but without the power to do anything about it, without being able to guarantee a sure strike. Because a failed strike endangered his brothers. Not literal brothers. They're a unit trained for cohesion, molded to be a set. To break them up is to break them individually. Togetherness is certainty; separation is uncertainty. And there was too much of that…_

"My lord," I whispered. "You may be able to talk them around. They aren't loyal to her, they're _shackled_ to her. But they'd be very loyal to the Sith who frees them, I think."

"Interesting," Her Lordship mused softly before scuffing her boot intentionally against the floor. "I'll consider it."

The remark wasn't dismissive; she meant it literally. This simply wasn't the time to stand around discussing it. She'll have to work fast if she wants to coopt them into her powerbase.

"You rescue has been sniffed out, Imperial," the smallest of the assassins slurred. He forced himself up straight before stepping past the Imperials. "I sense great hostility."

I stifled a laugh. That's one way of putting it.

"I don't—"

" _Silence_ ," the Sith cut off the officer. The other assassins forced themselves upright and closed ranks together. Nervousness and a disinclination to go back into imprisonment hung thick in the air. I could almost see them reaching out for one another, not just so they knew where each was physically, but checking mind, emotion, assuring the others each of his own ability to meet this threat.

It was… fascinating to observe.

The Imperials hustled to surround the Sith, taking knees or cover as they could.

" _Don't_ be foolish," Her Lordship declared, igniting her off-hand lightsaber (more for light than as a threat) as she moved forward. There was a quality in the gesture that seemed innately nonthreatening.

The smallest Sith murmured something to his compatriots, held up a hand, and then stepped away from them, moving past the Imperials' defensive line. His motions were careful, light on his feet as if used to walking on unsteady or treacherous ground. The darkness seemed to pull toward him, as if waiting to swallow him up but only because he desired it so. Kind of like an octopus hiding in its cloud of ink… only in reverse.

Her Lordship stopped a good fifteen feet back, poised and confident, bathed in the warm light of her lightsaber.

"What do you want here?" the assassin finally asked. Even with the cut of his robes, he was a _very_ small man, not much bigger than I was. The air around him hummed however, leaving me the distinct impression he could explode into action as fast as Her Lordship could bring it. But he's no master of combat; take away the element of surprise and he's in trouble. He might be able to dodge an opponent's onslaught, but not forever.

Just long enough for one of his brothers to slip up behind his assailant.

I expanded my senses, listening, reaching out to make sure some unseen fourth assassin wasn't lurking, ready to put a vibroknife between my ribs. One shouldn't trust one's eyes alone when it comes to assassins.

"I'm on a timetable," Her Lordship declared briskly. "I'm here to ensure that Darth Ekkage—and all who associate themselves with her—never leave Belsavis."

The other two assassins moved slowly off to the side, half melting into the shadows.

"Do _not_ be foolish," Her Lordship repeated darkly, igniting her other lightsaber. No further warnings would be given.

The Sith with whom she spoke glanced over his shoulder, then held up a hand. The other two didn't move back out of the darkness, merely waited, half in, half out. Hostility and fear coiled unpleasantly in the air, almost a physical sensation.

"We are at odds, then," the lead assassin declared calmly. "We will not be confined. I wonder, however, at your motives: why do you see to inhibit my mistress' escape? She is a member of the Dark Council. We,"  
he indicated Her Lordship and himself (though as a plural to encompass his fellows as well), "serve the same Empire."

"I am Lord Hellanix Balanchine-Renault," Her Lordship's voice had a hammer-on-anvil quality that made the Imperials tense. Whatever others might believe, it was clear _she_ believed what she said—believed it enough to kill anyone who tried to gainsay her about it, believed it enough not to destroy those who shared in her belief. There was nothing of the Force in her words, just pure, unadulterated force of personality… and the truth. "I serve the Emperor as his Wrath. His Hand has declared that the Empire rescuing Darth Ekkage is corrupt. I declare that your mistress is an accessory to that corruption. You," she pointed with her lightsaber, "are an unknown. I give you the benefit of the doubt."

A moment ensued during which I felt certain the three assassins communicated silently among themselves. "I have heard of the Hand, and I have heard of the Wrath. I even know his face." There was a testing quality in the almost idly-toned statement.

I also noticed that the Sith all spoke with a certain kind of formality, a lack of contractions in their words, careful meter and pace. Not for the first time I wondered about it, then chalked it up to one of the forms that allowed Sith to maneuver through their own society: the longer it takes to say something in full means extra fractions of seconds in which to think.

"My appointment _is_ recent," Her Lordship allowed. "Believe in it or not, as you like."

Ah, that's what she's angling at. She can kill Ekkage and until she runs into someone she can't kill there's nothing to prove she's not exactly who she says she is—Sith aren't above 'might equals right' and I'm inclined to believe there really are times when it's a valid litmus test.

In this case, it seems that the devil these assassins don't know is preferable to the one they do. If she can kill Ekkage, they can play along for a while. If she _is_ who she says she is… well. Crossing her is unwise in the best case scenario.

"I sense the truth in what you say, my lord Wrath." He bowed deferentially, almost sincerely. He may even have been truly sincere. I don't really care, as long as he keeps his weapons pointed where Her Lordship wants them.

Ekkage must have made herself incredibly unpopular.

The two assassins behind him stepped slowly away from the shadows, then moved behind the Imperials. I think they must have been using the Force because the soldiers didn't seem to realize they were now caught in a triangle of Sith. The assassins didn't look to their third member; they watched Her Lordship for a cue, eyes glittering like mica chips in their sockets.

My guts tightened with apprehension.

The assassins, almost as one, took a knee. "We pledge ourselves to you, my lord Wrath, and to our supreme master, the Emperor."

The other two echoed the sentiment, barely a whisper from where they were positioned.

The Imperials began looking around nervously as the assassins regained their feet.

"How many are you?" Her Lordship asked.

"Nine counting us. With your permission, we will slaughter these commandos and free our remaining brothers," the lead assassin declared, glancing idly over his shoulder as he flexed a hand. Clearly he meant the Imperials to be a warm-up. I didn't sense any particular enthusiasm about killing them; it was nothing about which he concerned himself, like opening a door or closing a window.

"Ex-excuse me?" one of the soldiers squeaked.

"A wise decision. Are you able to find me without my transmitting coordinates?" Her Lordship asked.

The lead assassin smiled thinly. "You needn't trouble yourself with such details, my lord," came the silky, deferential response… a response not devoid of amusement. As if an assassin couldn't find his target—to benignly report in or with violence in mind.

"My-my lord?" the soldier tried again. He seemed unable to wrap his head around the fact that he'd just been sentenced to death as a peripheral thing, something not worth really thinking about by the Sith around him.

Killing them is wasteful, but necessary. Caught between two Sith is not a good place to be, and how are they supposed to judge which will win?

"Then you will free your brethren then converge at my location. Remain unobserved until I finish with Ekkage and with this fool Jedi wandering about." Her tone left no doubt: if anyone touched the Jedi before she got finished with him, she would be… disappointed. No one would want that. "Then, we will discuss the Empire, the future and your places in them."

The assassins bowed again as Her Lordship turned on her heel and swept out.

The sounds of screams and cracking bones followed us as we walked.

"I think they'll serve you well, my lord," I noted once we were out of earshot.

"I have no doubt. When we get back to the _Blight_ you will contact Rathari and tell him to expect these assassins. Once they finish my first directive for them, he may make use of them as he sees fit."

"Your first directive?"

She smiled, catlike and cruel. "I finally seem to have an excess of foes and fools to deal with, Jaesa. More than that, I won't deviate from the Emperor's will to deal with such a petty matter. If this cabal of assassins can't handle Lord Grathan, they're of no use to me." Suddenly she chuckled. "I'm going to end by mailing Baras a boxful of heads."

From her tone, she meant it quite literally. Now _that's_ sending a message. I wonder if Baras will throw a little tantrum when he finds out Her Lordship is alive and breaking his toys. I hope he does. I hope he feels _fear_. _Desperation._ _Helplessness._ Everything I had to go through while he used Her Lordship to burn my life out from under me.

 **Belsavis, Part VI**

I had to admit, Ekkage's detention chamber—when we finally got there—did seem fitting for a member of the Dark Council. Sorry, _former_ member of the Dark Council. I was inclined to be snide or anything nasty, really, in spite of the fact that she's not her brother. I just can't imagine them being anything but alike, coming from the same family as they do. More than that, we'd had to deal with Timmns and the annoying messages he either left or comm'd in.

He'd showed a very un-Jedi pleasure in jerking Her Lordship around. It was childish in the extreme and I meant him to pay for it if I could find a way to do it.

But first, Ekkage.

Tall statues of vaguely humanoid creatures lined the walls, holding up the ceiling. Lava—yes, like volcanic stuff—poured from some reservoir above into some chamber below. The heat was incredible; the light from the molten rock gave the whole place a reddish cast and a hellish ambience. If I hadn't been sweating when I came in, I would have been within minutes. The air hung thick, suffocatingly close, reeking (understandably) of melted rock and sulfur.

The confinement system used for Ekkage was of Republic design, not something the original builders included. Again, I found myself wondering who built this place and how the Republic found it. From what I can tell, lowering it to a mere prison is such a waste: if it were up to me, I'd have executed the kind of prisoners you find here and studied the structure in-depth. Or had scholars do it. Who knows what you could find down here? Interesting and dangerous things, if I'm any judge.

I'll bet part of this place would make superb fortresses. A Sith could set up in style, here.

Her Lordship didn't need to enjoin silence as she slipped behind the nearest statue's plinth, peering out from behind it. Just jumping in half-cocked would be careless. Whatever she is now, Ekkage was Dark Council—which means caution even under the best of circumstances; meanwhile, Melicoste was believed competent enough an agent to get her out of this hole.

Ekkage was already out of confinement, barely a shadow against the brilliant backdrop.

Melicoste, a bigger shadow, knelt beside her attentively.

However close the air was, the room's acoustics were perfect, bringing Ekkage's and Melicoste's voices back to us so we didn't have to strain our ears.

"Had my bother sent anyone else," Ekkage hissed in a soft, rasping voice, "I would destroy him for practice."

Charming. And stupid, since she (probably) has no idea where she is and (definitely) has no idea what the status quo outside this room is. She weak, vulnerable, even with her assassins she lacks the assets to get off-world on her own.

I caught her Lordship's eye and twirled a finger at my temple.

Along our bond rippled the idea of _Baras' sister,_ accented with a kind of disapproving shrug and an impression warning me to be ready, whatever I thought about Ekkage's mental cohesion.

Trust me, you _don't_ mess around with the crazies; I already know how Her Lordship feels about crazy. I agree: it's the epitome of lack of self-awareness, the abyss of foolishness into which one falls but does not return. The poorest of Sith succumb to craziness; they might be strong for a time but it's not as sure a strength as that afforded by self-awareness and patience.

Ekkage unfolded, revealing her build to be thin, frail.

Melicoste seemed to loom above her, outsized and overstated.

Ekkage drew herself up, took a few steps to the side, faltered, and staggered.

Melicoste caught her, but was sharply waved away as Ekkage righted herself. The few faltering steps moved her far enough away from the fall of lava for me to raise a hand to cover the brilliant light and get a fairly okay look at the woman herself. There wasn't much to see, for she lifted her hood to cover her head, which she bowed. Anger lashed through the air, slapping against my senses, carrying with it the sense of someone testing a muscle to see if (or how) it had atrophied.

I took Her Lordship's elbow, made us both as small and insignificant as I could, folding us both in layer after layer of thick, sumptuous invisibility. I'm better at hiding, after all. Either my initiative or the strong, controlled use of power, garnered a ripple of approval from her.

"Why did it take Baras so long to discover Belsavis?" Ekkage asked disgustedly. "He must be getting _weak_."

Oh, that's gratitude for you. Same family, definitely the same family, with the same bad attitude.

"Lord Baras has ascended to the Dark Council, my lord," Melicoste reported dutifully. "And with your support, will soon be named Voice of the Emperor."

"Who holds my seat now?" Ekkage asked darkly.

"Darth Rictus."

Ekkage made a derisive, hissing noise. "He hasn't grown stronger; _they've_ grown more _inept_."

"My lord?"

"If my dear brother is really so elevated and has things so marvelously under control as to need only provisional assistance from me, then where are my assassins?" she demanded, voice dripping with disgust and mounting viciousness.

Oh, I think she knows: someone made them a better offer. Someone capable of backing that offer up with the ultimate security: killing her.

The Force began to twist gently, as if being slowly sucked down a drain. But the sluggishness of it, as if it was viscous, suggested Ekkage was still coming out of her containment—whatever method was employed. Suspension-type imprisonment (that is, stasis, cryo, that sort of thing) takes a toll on the body because the body isn't designed to be held in suspension. It takes time for all the systems to reboot, to ensure all connections are present and in working order.

"I sent commandos to release them," Melicoste said perplexedly. "What do you sense?"

Ah. Powerful and loyal… but _not_ particularly intelligent. I suspect I'm looking at a throwaway pawn. If Baras really had this as a top priority, he'd have sent Draahg. I know Her Lordship would have preferred it—one enemy the fewer and a _real_ addition to the bouquet of heads she's planning.

She doesn't often indulge in bloodthirstiness or excessive displays but when she does, she does it with the same single-minded determination and thoroughness that she does everything else. I look forward to learning the architecture of thorough, bloody revenge.

Ekkage adjusted her sleeve, seeming to draw in on herself, a brooding figure, a snake coiling to strike.

If I were Melicoste, I'd move. The only person in strike distance is him, after all. And she's crazy. More than that, she's already said she's in a killing mood.

Maybe that's why Baras didn't send Draahg: he needs Ekkage, so he'll throw her a bone to keep her content. Now, how she plans to get off Belsavis without knowing what Melicoste's resources or her options are, I have no idea. Seems a bit short-sighted to me, contrary to her brother's style of play.

I wonder if Baras didn't have something to do with this imprisonment; keep her out of the way for a while—for his reasons and possibly to ensure she lives to be on the Council when his plans begin to blossom—then heroically rescue her from confinement when his position is as strong (or stronger than) the one she takes back. She'll back him if she smells gain; I can only assume Rictus isn't one of Baras' supporters. I don't see Ekkage trying to take someone else's seat. She strikes me as the possessive sort; she'll want her old one back.

Then again, Sphere of Mysteries: if anyone knows where bodies or treasure are buried, she would.

I'll run this by Her Lordship when we get back to the ship. I'd like to know if I'm getting better at dissecting situations and psychologies. At least she won't be too harsh if I'm wrong; rather, she'll show me where I went wrong and what the indicators I missed were.

"I _sensed_ my assassins being freed—your commandos got _that_ much right," Ekkage said shrewishly. "But then someone turned their hearts against me."

It wasn't that hard. Seriously, it was _not_ that hard.

Her Lordship knocked my elbow, nodded towards Ekkage and Melicoste (who began offering excuses).

 _Be ready._

I nodded back, anticipation fluttering in my stomach as Ekkage—with all the savagery I'd expected—sent purple lightning leaping into Melicoste's body. He couldn't scream, he just shuddered where he was until Ekkage flung the body into the lava fall.

"I will tell my brother," Ekkage remarked lightly, sounding pleased and almost… satisfied… with the kill. "The future Voice of the Emperor, that you died like a dog."

"That wasn't wasteful at all," Her Lordship declared, shaking loose of me and prowling into sight.

I followed, diminishing my presence as much as I could—partly to observe without distracting from the scene, partly to come as a surprise when I _did_ show myself.

Ekkage started, her posture growing defensive, Melicoste's fallen lightsaber leaping to her hand as she bristled. "Who in the Void are _you_?" she sneered.

It wasn't a great sneer, truth be told, as it was just a twisting of an old hag's features—there was no thickening of the air, no sense of something big and disapproving in the room. Just an old woman making a face—a powerful old woman, to be sure, but… Ekkage lacks a true sense of presence, of display. Maybe it's just the long time in suspension, but I find her presentation severely lacking. It makes me wonder how long she was actually on the Dark Council.

"As you so poetically told the late Lord Melicoste, wrath, ruin… vengeance," Her Lordship answered. And _she_ had presence as she strolled so calmly to about twenty feet of Ekkage, lightsabers casual in her hand, perfect posture, accompanying herself with an air of supreme disdain.

"And that means what to me? All I see is an upstart," Ekkage returned.

"Your assassins saw the matter rather differently," came the smug rejoinder. "They've abandoned you and, I might add, were quite pleased to do so. I don't blame them—such a substandard mistress for such obvious talent." Then she gave Ekkage that _look_ , that flick of the eyes that incenses the unready or the off-kilter so easily. That look of supreme superiority and pity for the massive inferiority before her.

Ekkage's expression contorted with raw fury, every line etching itself deeply into the slightly sagging skin of her face. Her eyes blazed, her nostrils flared, her lips pulled back from her teeth in a silent snarl as anger burst through the Force like fireworks.

I gasped, giving myself away, and backed up, rendered dry-mouthed by the sudden display.

…I take back some of what I was thinking earlier. A little less derision is called for.

Ekkage recoiled, eyes darting about. Lighting arced at me—surprise attack that I was supposed to be—only to be blocked by will, the Force, and the glow of my own lightsaber.

I… didn't know I could block like that, like it was second nature, habit. But the action was easy, comforting, and Ekkage gave up before my focus gave out, before my arms started trembling or sweat of exertion started to bathe my skin.

"My apprentice Jaesa," Her Lordship announced amiably.

"I think she suits you to the last degree—underwhelming and utterly mediocre," Ekkage spat.

"Relax, my lord," came the ironical response. "She's here to observe and to learn. You don't need to worry about two on one while you're feeble or my letting one of your—excuse me, _my_ —assassins stab you in the back. I daresay that would be the preference but holding a lottery takes more time than I care to spend just now."

I stepped back to give the two women room to fight, lightsaber ignited but only as a means of defense. In fact, I inched all the way back to the bottom of the stairs leading into the room before Her Lordship indicated through our bond I'd given her more than enough room to work and expressing her appreciation for my delicacy in the matter.

I pulled invisibility around myself again. Not that Ekkage didn't know where I was, but once the fight starts she'll lose track of me; once she loses track she'll have to reacquire, which takes time and focus. There's no knowing whether Her Lordship was lying about my being there only to observe. Doubt and paranoia will chip away at Ekkage's mindset, leave her open to missteps.

Because that's what all this pre-fight banter really is: it's an attempt to erode the confidence of the other person so they make mistakes.

To their Padawans, Jedi describe the Sith as brute force fighters—which they can be, most definitely—with no sense of subtlety, all rage and senseless battering force. The reality is that they play many of the same mind games the Jedi do and do it just as well, depending on the Sith and the Jedi in question. It's comforting to them, I think, to imagine that training between the two Orders doesn't overlap when, in reality, it does.

It creates a bit of a blind spot that is only corrected over time and exposure… assuming the Padawan (or Sith Apprentice) lives that long.

"I'll bury you in the same grave," Ekkage growled. "What name should I put on the tombstone, should I even bother to mark it?"

I turned where I stood, a sickeningly bland aura preceding…

Oh, by the Emperor…

"She's with _me_ , Ekkage," Timmns announced proudly as he came down the steps into the chamber.

"You're late," I growled, making him jump. The overly-proud, smug tone—as if this was his mission and Her Lordship a particularly gifted Padawan—left my guts churning.

"Nomen Karr's sad little whelp?" Ekkage squinted then laughed humorlessly before redirecting herself to Her Lordship. "And here I almost thought you worth an etched name beside your ditch. Any Sith who finds herself allied with a Jedi should know something is wrong. You are a fool and a traitor."

"Any Sith who sets herself against the Emperor's will should know the price," Her Lordship answered with more dignity than I could have mustered at the moment. "You've one foot in the grave and in but a moment you'll be a corpse on the floor. I'll return your head to your dear brother."

Timmns shuffled sideways from Her Lordship, giving her a disapproving look.

What did he expect? My guts continued burning as I studied Timmns' back. Did he have to embarrass Her Lordship now as well as jerk her around during out sojourn to get here? Because he did, and I was so sick of dealing with or remembering that 'I've got you by the hair, what are you going to do about it—what _can_ you do about it?' attitude that I wanted to kill him right this second. Strike from behind and leave Sith matters to the Sith.

Spawn of a hutt and a diseased nerf.

But patience, because Her Lordship displayed it.

It started as a whiff of sensation, like the faint smell of burning toast. Then it became the smell of wood smoke from a freshly stoked fire. Then a bonfire on a cold night. Then a building on fire while trapped occupants screamed.

Ekkage and Timmns both tensed.

There was no outward sign that the anger, the rage, all that stuff Her Lordship keeps so tightly packed, was emanating from her, causing massive ripples in the Force. However much she let it show, like a snake flaring its hood in warning, there was not an ounce of uncontrol in it. She could direct it into immediate and practical use with a flick of thought—part of me wondered if this wasn't for _my_ benefit rather than theirs: the uses of showmanship, because the back of Timmns' head had begun to glisten with sweat while Ekkage's posture went rigid.

I won't say the fight will be _easy_ , but I do think Her Lordship doesn't really need help. "I am the Emperor's Wrath," Her Lordship declared quietly, the words almost lost in the display of power around her. "And he has called for your head, Ekkage."

The sense of fire filling the room was gone in a trice. Ekkage managed to get out of range of Her Lordship's lunge with inches to spare—Her Lordship didn't even take off a shred of Ekkage's robes. That's… telling. An actual miss is an actual miss. However low my opinion of Ekkage was… well. Her Lordship's first blow didn't even marginally connect; the warning before the spring was so singularly small that the disappearance of all that rage in the air ought to have given Ekkage at least a millisecond of pause.

But it hadn't.

Note to self: don't let poor opinion of someone cloud objective assessment of that person. It looks like it could be fatal.

As it was, I was in a good position to dissect the display before me. I don't think Timmns or Ekkage remembered I was there once the battle erupted.

Her Lordship's display seeded doubt in two opponents at once. And they'd wonder whether it was a one-time display or if it was the tip of the power Her Lordship was capable of summoning. The not knowing kept them on their toes, wondering if that power would slam into them unexpectedly, this time without any kind of warning.

The fight highlighted that two people fighting for the same goal was not the same as a unified pursuit. Timmns was older than Her Lordship, more experienced with regards to practicing his Order's arts. It was also clear he was used to working alone, because he seemed to find Her Lordship an obstacle, even if they were after a similar result. That he might worry about whether she would make this a two-on-one fight long enough to destroy him and leave Sith matters to Sith didn't do anything to facilitate a shared goal.

Her Lordship must have had some motive I didn't recognize to encourage this kind of chaos in what should have been a solid front.

Ekkage, aware of the lack of synergy, preyed upon it, using Timmns to… like putting a right-handed person and a left-handed person side-by-side at the dinner table: their elbows get in one another's way. Timmns would sail in only to find Her Lordship's rock-solid combat style preventing his attempted assault. Her Lordship would give him room but he wouldn't take that which she afforded, forcing her to reshuffle positions and her own tactics to accommodate this blind unwillingness to accept anything from a Sith.

Ekkage was strong with the Force, relying more on it than on her lightsaber. With her physical form weakened by imprisonment, it left her less vulnerable than she might otherwise have been had she relied on the strength in her arms.

Her Lordship continued her usual pretense of relying more on physical prowess than use of the Force. In this case, it had a dual purpose: it trips her enemy into believing a lie (which she can dispel any time with the equivalent of a sneak attack), but in this case Ekkage wasn't physically up to a long, grueling fight that pressed her sharply and kept her moving around. Even keeping her moving was an energetic thing, which would slowly drain Ekkage.

This told me Her Lordship was holding back, letting Timmns take up her slack. Whether this had anything to do with confronting Timmns later or not, I didn't know. What I did know was that with every moment the fight lasted in deadlock, Ekkage's advantages waned. She hadn't mastered the art of passively drawing on the Force while in combat to bolster a failing body. The simple fact that Her Lordship does it while at her peak is one reason I've never seen her meet her match…

…excepting Master Wyellett, but he was a unique case. Thinking about him still caused a twinge of hurt and guilt. It still seemed wrong to have destroyed him, even if I agreed with Her Lordship: he tried to escape once, after all those years in ice. There was no guarantee he wouldn't have done it again.

I know the Jedi. They'd have wanted to use him and, with Jedi training being what it is, starting as young as it does… I don't think he could hold himself apart from the wishes (or, more particularly, the orders) of the Jedi Council. Still…

Ekkage's shriek brought me back to myself. I hadn't actually lost sight of her during my introspection—a skill I was cultivating, looking within while observing without—so I was ready as she made a break for it, sprinting for the stairs to get out of a room full of opponents with whom she couldn't contend.

I stepped sharply to the left and raised a hand, invisibility falling away as I sent a veritable wall of the Force slamming into Ekkage, throwing her back to land halfway between myself and her pursuers.

Timmns' shock at my reappearance made me smirk. Panting and sweating, he'd clearly forgotten all about me. Well, more the fool he, and I had to tamp down on my resentment.

Her Lordship's approval turned her smirk into an unholy leer.

"Surprise," I breathed, just loud enough for the word to carry.

Ekkage lay panting on the ground, chest heaving, breath catching, trembling. Partly stunned, partly at the end of physical endurance, she was little more than a sad heap of black robes.

"Thank you, Jaesa. Come, join us," Her Lordship called, beckoning me to come over.

I walked briskly up and stood at Ekkage's feet, forming the third point of a triangle around the fallen woman.

Ekkage managed to turn so she could look up and see her judges. She looked older than ever, old and impotent, weak. I don't know how she would have stacked up against Darth Rictus, but it was clear the idea of being defeated, of being destroyed, never occurred to her.

"Oh… I…" Ekkage sounded shocked, as if she'd forgotten what pain felt like, what fear felt like, what _helplessness_ felt like. She looked around in confusion, as if she'd lost something and had only just noticed.

A good lesson: consider the possibility of defeat as well as the possibility of victory. The possibility of failure exists; it _always_ exists, no matter how marginal, and it's usually the marginal that comes back to bite a person.

Timmns shuffled back a pace, frowning his best Jedi frown at Her Lordship.

"How… have my powers waned while I—ah!" Ekkage, who endeavored to push herself to sitting, found herself planted firmly against the ground, Her Lordship's boot resting squarely on the woman's breastbone.

"I'm your better," Her Lordship answered dismissively. "Pretend otherwise if you like, but your heart knows the truth."

And what a painful barb _that_ is.

"Is that _really_ necessary? I'll never understand the pleasure your kind takes in rubbing things in," Timmns announced in that hoity-toity disdaining tone that made my teeth grind.

That's because he's not trying hard enough. Or at all.

Then, when neither Her Lordship nor I made note of his comment. "Now before you get any cute ideas, my friend… help me put Darth Ekkage back in her cell."

The former Darth didn't take this well, but her scrabbling only served to increase the weight Her Lordship applied, stifling the woman's breath until she stopped struggling, wheezing and gasping pitifully as she grasped at Her Lordship's ankle in a bid to release the pressure stifling her.

Her Lordship did not answer him. Rather, after a long moment of studying him, she clipped one lightsaber to her belt. "Jaesa."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Pop quiz," she announced with a dark smile, a sick parody of benevolence which earned a return grin from me. My guts tightened with anticipation, with the hope, of what she was about to say.

Or permit.

Timmns backed away, lightsaber held out to the side as if ready for both of us to jump at him at once. His eyes flicked nervously back and forth as I moved to stand closer to Her Lordship.

"Time to see how far you've come along. Regard this person, this _morally superior_ Jedi. How would you go about dealing with this _noble_ person?" Her words with their delicate italics sliced into the stunned Jedi like razorblades propelled at high velocity.

It was exactly what I'd hoped she'd say! I wish I'd given more thought to this, something truly elegant and compensatory for the annoyance he's caused me and the embarrassment he's tried to heap on her. "You would let me decide?" My voice trembled with the hope of it.

I have my own issues with the Jedi, issues that allow me to gladly destroy them. But this one dared to jerk Her Lordship around, to patronize her and humiliate her in front of her enemies. She's more than capable of killing him, but she shouldn't have to dirty her hands with this… _noble person_.

"I think so, yes. The fates of this mostexcellentJedi and this fool here under my boot are in your hands. Let your passions guide you."

The Jedi looked sickened at this… lesson… in which he found himself incorporated. A lesson that doubled to show him just how far from the Jedi I'd managed to scramble. It left him without an accurate idea of what to expect from me. If he survived the encounter, it was something he could take back to the Jedi Council, something to worry them.

"You can't be serious," Timmns said, looking genuinely flummoxed. So much so that he actually let his guard drop a little.

"You'll find Jaesa quite capable of dealing with you, Master Timmns. Not to fret," Her Lordship soothed. "And Ekkage won't be pulling any _meaningful_ last-moment surprises, so you needn't worry about that, either."

My first thought was just to kill him. Problem solved, one less fool in the galaxy and one less fool Jedi in the galaxy. His defiantly smug 'she's with _me_ , Ekkage' still made my stomach churn with acid.

I found the blunt idea lacking, so I shuffled it to the bottom of my mental stack of papers. Letting him just walk away wasn't an option. He was Jedi, we are Sith…

Ah. He _was_ Jedi.

I _looked_ at him again.

 _There was anger. Disgust. Fear. He was devoted to Karr, was hit hard by Her Lordship's defeat of the man, the role model, that invincible unchanging titan. He turned his face into the skirts of the Jedi rather than accept that Karr was as flawed—if not more so—than anyone else in the galaxy. His denial runs deep, desperate to avoid the fate that claimed his master—a fate he thought impossible for_ _the_ _Nomen Karr—and a desire to avenge it. Petty spite such as we've been shown is all he feels safe exercising, like a schoolchild taunting the schoolyard bully in the presence of teachers. He's afraid of her power but doesn't think much of me. Brainwashed child, the Jedi should have protected her better—_

I blinked, then smiled at him. "You leave this _entirely_ to me, my lord?"

"Entirely. Be careful with Ekkage. She's feistier than her brother." With that, Her Lordship let Ekkage out from under her foot. Our special bond dampened, showing that she meant what she said: this was my show and she would not interfere more than she could help. It was a strong bond though, and I left the door on my side ajar while we were on an assignment; her interest and hopes for my training seeped across from around the edges.

"You, stay put." I reached down and grabbed Ekkage by the front of her robes, hoisting her bodily to her knees before leveling my grin at the Jedi. "This is the way of it, Jedi—my master destroyed yours. Now it is time for their pupils to dance their dance." I let go of Ekkage who, although brimming with anger, remained where she was. She had too many enemies in the room and Her Lordship standing at her back, ready to step in if need be.

I deactivated my lightsaber and prowled over to Timmns, who shuffled to keep me at a distance with the result of me catching him between myself and Her Lordship. Retreating, his only way to restore distance, wasn't seemly so he didn't try.

I liked the elegance of my solution. "If you do not destroy Darth Ekkage here, now, in cold blood…" I leaned towards his ear while he shuffled sideways. "I am going to let her go."

"…what?" The Jedi's expression was hilarious, except I contained my hilarity. I want to be dignified about this.

I arched my eyebrows at him. It was in plain Basic and I certainly didn't stutter.

"You can't be serious," Timmns looked to Her Lordship, who remained neutral where she stood, waiting for my solution to play itself out. "Your master's mission would fail. Darth Baras would get his way."

"You make this sound like a children's game, Jedi Master Somminick Timmns. Perhaps the lesson of the day is more for you than for me. My master is more than a match for that tin-faced, twin-faced fool. Darth Ekkage, free or dead, makes no difference to us. She _failed_ him, and now knows her own limitations," I answered. "It is your Order that cares so very much that this Darth not be unleashed again." I liked the heaviness the slow formality afforded, felt that there was an innate kind of power in it—nothing of the Force just… a sense of ritual, maybe. It was something to remember.

Timmns looked at me, as if he had never seen me before, as if it had finally penetrated his thick skull: the Jaesa Willsaam belonging to the Jedi Order died on Hutta. Her death gave rise to Jaesa Willsaam of the Sith Order. There wasn't even _hope_ of winning her back.

"You're… putting me in a terrible position…" Timmns actually looked wrong-footed, uncertain, sickened.

"I know. Therein lies point. This is educational." I reached out to him with my special power, felt at his anguish, the sickening sense of doing what must be done even though it _felt so wrong_. He twisted and writhed in agony over the position I'd put him in.

My mouth curved in a serene smile. I won't kill him. I'll even let him go. But he won't be the same Jedi he was. Over time he'll fall apart. Patience after planting an influence he perceives as corrupted. Breaking a Jedi wasn't necessarily a quick event; sometimes it takes time, just as Her Lordship said earlier.

One way or another, the Jedi have lost another of their masters. Perhaps, over time, he may even succumb to the Dark Side. In the meantime, he'll suffer, his effectiveness hamstrung, eaten alive by _guilt_.

I know the Jedi Order. They have nothing and no one to help their members deal with this sort of situation. All they can do is repeat their useless Code until the injured mind snaps. I think, deep down, most of them know this: take a powerful injury to the body, that can be fixed; but if your soul or mind is injured, you're on your own. There's no help for you. Not really.

Timmns swallowed, began muttering under his breath. "I will not kill the defenseless..." he looked at Ekkage, who looked as uneasy as he did. "But if she walks free she will not _remain_ defenseless." He swallowed again, looking at his lightsaber. He took a deep, steadying breath then swallowed hard.

"Come now, Jedi Master," I purred. "You know what you have to do. Be brave."

He ignored me, or gave the appearance of doing so. He adjusted his mouth into a thin line, looking like a man being dragged towards the executioner's block.

Her Lordship watched, her bright eyes fixed intently on the Jedi as he positioned himself to strike. She stood behind Ekkage, ready to administer a deathblow if necessity demanded it. Timmns would have to look Ekkage in the face as he executed her. A real, genuine _execution_.

Timmns' hands shook, his nostrils flared, his eyes were glassy with the pain of being bound by necessity and distress over what that necessity was. As Her Lordship discovered with Master Wyellett, he found the pain of being caught between necessity and conscience. And, like Her Lordship, he didn't rise above necessity: a second later, and he closed his eyes so he didn't have to see his own handiwork, Ekkage's head and shoulders parted company in a single sweep of Timmns' lightsaber.

Decapitation, not a simple killing thrust.

He stood stock-still except for breaths that seemed to shake him, his knuckles blanched, eyes wide.

I reached out to him again. Loss. Emptiness. Confusion. A deep-seated sense of self-loathing blossoming up from deep inside. Not a break, but the cracks begin to form and, over time, will be wedged wider and wider until he snaps or dies. Either way works: he'll suffer all the while. He's not the master he was, not in his own mind, and that is the only place where such things matter—there, in the mind, where the roots are.

"You look preoccupied," I noted simply, regarding the corpse.

"I feel… less… than I was," Timmns murmured, as if hoping this was a nightmare from which he would soon wake.

"Believe me, it was for your betterment," I assured him, not devoid of cruel humor. If he leaves the path of folly and accepts the rightness of the Dark Side, it certainly will be.

"The life of a Jedi is a difficult one," Timmns continued in that slow, shaken voice, the lines in his face etching deeper and deeper. "But that is the hardest choice I have ever faced." He swallowed hard, then turned his attention to me. "And I'll have to live with that decision."

"You shall, indeed. Please give Nomen Karr and the Jedi Council my _fondest_ greetings," I smiled sweetly. "My lord, I believe our mission is accomplished."

"Indeed," Her Lordship nodded, apparently neutral about the whole exchange. Of course she would be, in front of this Jedi.

"One more thing, Jedi Master Somminick Timmns," I called, smiling charmingly at him. "How benevolent is it, really, to let your enemy live?"

He flinched at the full title, as if feeling he didn't deserve it any longer. I could tell the words sunk in deep, however.

Good.

"Farewell, Jedi Master," Her Lordship intoned as we strode out of the chamber, pausing only long enough to take Ekkage's head before leaving Timmns still gazing at his own handiwork.

No sooner were we out of the chamber than nine figures melted out of the darkness, flanking the corridor, hooded heads lowered deferentially. Her Lordship motioned them to fall in behind her, which they did. I couldn't help but notice that they made no noise as they moved; not a footfall, not a swish of robes, not even the sound of breath. It was like being followed by an entourage of ghosts.

However they were trained they were very, _very_ good. I could learn a great deal from them.

"Well?" I asked as soon as we were out of earshot—though I kept my perceptions open in case Timmns decided to try his hand at a real bloodbath. "Are you satisfied, my master?"

"I am _thrilled_ to see how very far you've come," she answered, smiling at me. "But now you must explain your decision to me."

"As I knew I must. Simply put, he tried to shame you before your foes. Death was too good for him. Now he'll suffer… perhaps, when he has suffered enough, he will find wisdom. Conversion to the Dark Side sometimes takes time, and patience is requisite for the very best members of our Order." A faint rustle of approval from several of the assassins around us. Well, if anyone needs patience and truly understands it, I suppose it's an assassin. "One never knows. Regardless, in the immediate future he'll spread tales of what a monster you are, and what a monster you've trained; the Jedi might hesitate to put more personnel in your way. Or mine."

Her Lordship chuckled at this, patting my shoulder approvingly. "You do me credit, Jaesa. Truly."

Pride swelled in my chest, nearly pushing the air out of my lungs.


	44. Chapter 44

**On Beatdowns**

To say I was displeased to be above Hoth was an understatement. I'd had enough of that particular experience, thank you. However, and I wasn't sure whether to be glad or not, I wasn't actually required to go down onto the planet's frozen surface. In fact, I wasn't invited at all. Her Lordship simply took Pierce with her without a single word of justification, just telling us to stay put.

Not that she's obliged to justify anything she does to anyone, except perhaps the Hand (or the Emperor, but he's not exactly accessible). I knew why she wanted Pierce rather than a fellow Sith: she had to persuade a general to abandon Baras' orders and take hers instead. Pierce knew the general, served with him. His was a voice more likely to be listened to, more likely to shore up whatever argument Her Lordship presented.

I had faith in her, if only because I knew she really would cut her way through the chain of command if she had to in order to find someone compliant. It would be wasteful, to use her words, but she'd do it if she thought she had to.

Her Lordship and Pierce weren't back by dinner. No surprise, though the Captain noted, apropos to nothing, that weather was still excellent (by Hoth's ridiculous standards), so any duration of Her Lordship's trip was due to distance and equipment. It occurred to me only then, as I bit into my nerf-beef hand pie, that this was a report to me as the Sith in charge… but also because he was so used to me being out there with Her Lordship.

 _Me_. The Sith. Not Pierce. Pierce's abilities for a mission like this were an unknown. If there's one thing the Captain hates, it's an unknown.

"I'm sure Baras picked them out a nice, isolated cave somewhere inhospitable and ridiculous," I answered with a sigh. "Tuvi, make sure there's something that can be warmed up quickly for when Her Lordship returns. I'll bet the chill is in her bones by—"

Something flared at the edge of my perceptions, something dark and malevolent. So much so that I was on my feet, dropping my hand pie before I thought about it.

"Jaesa?" the Captain asked, getting to his feet.

"We have a visitor," I answered, tone tight. A powerful visitor. And not a friendly one. Sweat began to stand out on my skin, breath stilling in apprehension. It was like vines reaching out to coil around my chest, squeezing the breath out of me.

"…what kind of visitor?" Vette almost squeaked.

It was Draahg. I hadn't experienced much about him the one time I met him, but I knew in my bones that it was him. Who else would Baras send? "I think Baras found us." The words came out so calmly as I picked my lightsaber up off the seat beside me.

Her Lordship always carries at least one lightsaber at all times. She used to give me dirty looks when I walked around the Balanchine Estate without mine. Now I know why.

"Draahg," the Captain growled, his most superficial layers fluxing with anger and disgust.

"Yes." The ship bucked, then the sound of metal twisting and screaming as Draahg began trying prying the airlock door loose. "Stay towards the back, Captain."

"That's ridiculous," the Captain growled.

Grabbed him by the arm and jerked him back, the Force allowing the action. "You're the one she cares about. If he knows that, you're dead. Just to get to her."

"And if it looks like I'm being protected he'll _know_ instead of guessing," the Captain answered sharply as Broonmark came tumbling into the room. "Vette, in the back!"

It made sense: she's the one an outsider would perceive as the least capable. The weakest link. The one it would make sense to protect.

"Broonmark, you're up front with me," I said sourly. Clearly, the Captain had a better idea of his position than I did. "Time to put those claws to good use."

" _Rival Sith clan will gorge on regret,_ " Broonmark warbled excitedly.

One can only hope.

"Vette, stay to the back," the Captain repeated.

Vette opened her mouth as if to argue, but closed it again, nodded. Her violet eyes seemed to be popping out of her head as she turned and sprinted for the dormitory, returning with her blasters.

Draahg's aura was smothering, tinged with the high expectation of carnage, or ripping into an opponent's underbelly while her back was turned.

My stomach wobbled, my mouth was dry. We were in a confined space, facing one boarder… but at the same time, Draahg is the safer of Baras' prized apprentices. He might cause Her Lordship a hitch of difficulty, but at the same time… we're not Her Lordship.

I glanced sidelong at the Captain, whose alabaster features registered only grim determination. His aura was… he was afraid—who wouldn't be?—but it was muted, the same way it always is. That's unusual, if only because people's control over their emotions weakens under this kind of stress. He was no louder—so to speak—than he ever was. His superficial emptions were right given the circumstances, it was just—

The airlock door tore free with an indescribable sound. My lightsaber bathed us all in golden light as the massive figure of Draahg sauntered in, lightsaber blazing in his hand, anticipation filling the air in a rank cloud.

I wished Khellin and some of his assassins were here.

"Well, well, well," Draahg smiled broadly. He was good-looking, but in a very clichéd kind of way. I immediately suspected he used the Force to touch up his looks. Vain. But 'vanity' isn't going to help me much. "Is your master home?"

Silence as I slowly prepared for a spring.

"No? So much the better. For me. So much the worse—"

I sprang forward and had a moment's gratification in his surprised expression. Sith and Jedi both like to talk before a fight, erode the other party through preliminary battles with words. I had no intention of letting him compromise me any more than I already was. I didn't trust my ability to get under his skin.

After a few furious seconds during which I think I exceeded expectation, a fist nearly the size of my head planted itself in my face before the Force propelled me backwards, slamming me into the table. My spine bowed as I impacted. As I lay on the floor, I half wondered if it had broken, or at least fractured in places. My nose bled and the punch left my head ringing.

There were too many of us in too small a space, the Captain and Vette's blasters making it difficult for Broonmark and me to maneuver—and if they weren't shooting, Draahg had less to distract him. It got worse when Her Lordship's training droids marched in, eyes lit red, announcing that 'live-action combat protocols' were engaged—I could only assume a panicking Tuvi had sent them in.

A lightsaber bit into my shoulder at an angle that should have sheared into one side and out the other. But it didn't, a hand pulling the Force shooting out to stop it. my palm burned, but the lightsaber didn't succeed in its killing blow. The reek of searing flesh blossomed around me as a meaty hand grabbed me by the front of my shirt. The last thing I saw before Draahg slammed me into the nearest bulkhead was a beautiful smile.

Then the screams started, and I blacked out.

 **On Damages**

I was soaked in pain, cold air on an unprotected body helping drag me out of unconsciousness. The floor thudded strangely beneath my cheek, an uneven pounding that made no sense whatever. Sound seemed blunted, disassociated.

Smoke billowed from somewhere. My face hurt. My head hurt. I ached all over.

I forced my eyes open to find that the Captain lay a few feet from me, the two of us clearly having been dragged out of the ship. Probably for Baras to deal with. He was crumpled so I could only see his back, but he was very still. I could still feel his presence in the Force however, so I knew he wasn't dead.

An ugly lightsaber burn tracked across his back. I couldn't understand how that was, unless Draahg hit him hard enough to slam the smaller man around. Because the Captain wouldn't retreat, not with his back turned.

The strange thumping of feet belonged to Her Lordship and Draahg, both of them engaged to the hilt. Her Lordship was angrier than I'd seen her in a long time, but it didn't show. I only felt the backlash along our bond—which was part of what dragged me out of consciousness.

 _She was afraid. The Captain and I looked pretty dead, even if she knew we weren't; the others were so weak, almost not to be felt…_

I blinked, realizing I'd looked with my gift without thinking. The rising fear that Draahg might have sensed some of this receded.

The dark thing towering between Her Lordship's fight and me turned out to be Pierce, clearly left to ensure that neither the Captain nor I came to any further damage. I found my right hand and tried to move it, but was rewarded only with searing, blazing pain… and a hand that didn't work. The left one did, leaving me to half smear, half pry the blood from my face. My nose—probably what was left of it—felt like a spongy, swollen mass.

Everything felt hazy and disconnected.

I must have blacked out again, because suddenly all I heard was Draahg screaming, could feel him somewhere below us in agony. I didn't know how he got there, or how the fire got there, only that I wanted to lie there and savor the screams.

"She's conscious," Her Lordship declared in a tone of cold fury I knew wasn't directed at me. "Move her carefully into the ship, then check on the others. They're alive, but just."

"Yes, m'lord."

Anger etched itself around the periphery of my senses. Anger, but without shock. This attack was a predictable move—

— _however incensory it was. And it had failed, but that left her no less furious. It beat like drums in the distance. She was going to kill Baras, she would have liked to dismember Draahg slowly, and revel in the screams… oh, my Malavai…_

I yelped as Pierce maneuvered me onto his broad shoulders. My vision swam as Her Lordship knelt beside the Captain. She seemed to sense my attention, but she didn't turn, her eyes still burning, mouth compressed into a thin, ugly line as she traced the outer edge of the wound on the Captain's back. From the way she moved her fingers, one on either side of the burn, I knew she was repairing the damage herself, rather than relying on modern medicine.

Draahg might have failed, but this escapade had been like a sucker punch. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

She nodded once, then leaned over, one hand stroking the Captain's cheek before traveling to rest on his chest. "Malavai?"

It took me a long moment to realize that 'Quinn' was simply his surname. Of course _she_ wouldn't use it in personal moments.

"Hell's bells," Pierce swore as he walked us through the wrecked airlock. "The hell happened?"

"Baras' other apprentice," I answered as clearly as I could. It hurt to talk. It hurt to think. I yearned for the black emptiness of unconsciousness.

Vette looked like a pile of bruises, and Broonmark's fur was bloodstained—all of it his. Tuvi knelt warbling nearby, apparently trying to render aid but without sufficient programming. The practice droids lay in several sparking chunks.

A feeling like shame coiled in my stomach as Pierce put me down on the sofa in the entertainment corner, rather than toting me all the way to the medbay. I was the only one conscious; it was likely I wasn't the most badly hurt.

"Vette? Oi," Pierce called gently. When Vette didn't respond, looking far gentler than a man of his bulk and inclinations should, he picked her up carefully and conveyed her to the medbay.

Her Lordship, with a very dazed Captain Quinn leaning heavily on her and only partly in his right mind, entered. She paused, a squealing sound that made Broonmark whine and start to come around indicated she'd dragged the wrecked airlock door into place.

The Captain's mouth moved, but numbly, as if he was apologizing to her or trying to tell her something.

"Shh," she whispered. "Jaesa, move your feet."

I did my best, as Her Lordship helped the Captain sit down. The pained, exhausted breath that hissed out of him was difficult to hear. There was just too much pain in the room.

I squeezed my eyes shut, stifling the whine I desperately wanted to give voice to.

"Little Vette might need the tank," Pierce announced anxiously, giving the Captain a significant look.

The Captain didn't see it, but immediately made to get up. He didn't have much success. "Use… general trauma profile," he managed, slurring through a mouth that didn't seem to want to work right. "In system."

I immediately heaved myself to standing and headed for the medbay. It took a few moments for me to find out how to load the 'general trauma' profile.

The tank, into which Pierce deposited Vette after fitting her with a breather, began to fill.

"Tuvi! Make yourself useful you piece of scrap," Her Lordship's snarl cut through the air, resulting in Tuvi's warbling helplessness going silent. "Caf. Make it black."

I was on the floor again, Her Lordship's hand on my arm to make sure I wouldn't get up.

"Jaesa?" Fingers tucked a lock of hair behind my ear.

"I'm alive," I slurred.

"Everyone seems to be," she answered reassuringly.

"She needs a dose of adrenaline," the Captain announced, slightly dazed and disturbingly feeble. I twisted and found him hanging limply, supported by one arm flung over Pierce's shoulder, and one of Pierce's arms around his waist. Pierce maneuvered him onto the medical table, where the Captain slumped as if his stomach muscles—or something inside—hurt. "Third drawer on the right, it's labeled."

Her Lordship swearing in a fashion _most_ unladylike—in a way to make a sailor blush, as the saying goes—wrenched the drawer open, snatched the hypospray, slammed the drawer closed and stormed over to me, pressing the spray against my thigh before looking darkly at the device. She held it up, levitated it, crushed it into the size of a small strawberry, then flung it across the room.

It left a dent in the wall.

The obvious distemper seemed only to be outgassing the scream of rage, the bubble of deep, dark hatred beginning to blossom. It was like Moff Thorne all over again, only this time she had something constructive to be doing and wouldn't just fall into unrestrained rage.

Pierce brought in Broonmark, then closed the door, sealing the five warm bodies (Vette didn't count, being in the tank as she was) into the small space. Or maybe Her Lordship just wanted us all where she could keep an eye on us. As the Captain gave instructions, clearly fighting to think through painkillers, Pierce and Her Lordship followed them—Her Lordship knocking around as if in petulant compliance.

But no one who knew her mistook what they were seeing: she slammed around because it was the only way to keep from falling into the chamber of hate and rage in her heart. "Is he dead?" I asked softly.

"Dying," she answered darkly, without asking who I meant.

I closed my eyes, tears burning in them as my head began to clear and Pierce began wrapping my wrist. "Broken," he confirmed when I cast him an interrogative look.

Her Lordship's suppressed rage was giving me a headache. Unfortunately, thanks to the adrenaline, blacking out again wasn't an option.

Tuvi arrived with a massive carafe of caf and several big mugs, which were shared out between us.

We're not going anywhere until we get the airlock fixed.

"Malavai? Can we limp to Belsavis?" Her Lordship asked.

A soft gasp indicated the Captain had blacked out where he sat. Her Lordship held his cup of caf—part of which had spilled onto the floor—so it wouldn't fall out of his hand. He blinked several times.

"Can we limp to Belsavis?" Her Lordship repeated gently. "The airlock's outer door has been utterly trashed, but we can't stay here."

"Yes… yes. The interior door should hold. It's meant to… but not indefinitely. Belsavis is a good choice," the Captain said, trying so hard not to slur. I could feel it in his superficial layers, not wanting to distress Her Lordship further. There was no indication of what was wrong that he wanted to keep from her.

It was the closest world with an Imperial presence and there were Imperial Guard on Belsavis. They'd make things happen if Her Lordship couldn't. She'd expect them to keep trouble away from her ship.

"I can get us there. The ship's computer is designed for those of us who aren't actual pilots." She paused. The Force flared around her as she touched both of the Captain's temples. He looked vaguely surprised even through his disorientation. Whether she found anything to concern herself about or not, it didn't show. She lingered a few moments longer, brow to brow, until the Captain gave a soft grunt, as if something had slipped into place.

His aura suddenly unknotted, which meant she'd poked and prodded to find out where he was hurt and did what she could to fix it. This supposition was confirmed when the Captain began gently probing what were previously damaged areas. He flinched like they were sore, but seemed surprised, as if soreness was all he found despite his expectations.

"Sith _can_ do that. Drink your caf," Her Lordship commanded, kissing his cheek before withdrawing.

The order was for him, but I followed it, too.

"…she's taking this rather well," Pierce noted, as if the quiet disturbed him.

"You think so?" I asked bitterly. "The only reason she's not giving us a repeat performance of the day she got news about her godfather is that there are things more immediate she can actually do. Be glad you can't hear her the way _I_ can." I massaged one temple. She was not having great success muffling our bond enough for me _not_ to have a headache from the noise on her end.

The Captain slipped off the medtable, hand out to catch himself if he staggered, but he didn't. He moved stiffly, but clearly Her Lordship's battlefield care was approachable to that most people could manage with a medkit. His attention went straight to the tank, reconfiguring the profile for Vette's more specific needs.

Pierce gave a soft sound I didn't really know how to interpret.

The caf burned and as soon as I finished it, Tuvi began pressing me to take more—which I did, but only to shut him up. That high pitched voice…

Everyone tensed as the ship pulled out of the hangar, then went still. A few seconds later, the shimmy of entering hyperspace.

Her Lordship returned, burning like an angry coal.

 **On the Force Deaf**

I frowned at Her Lordship, once everyone who could be was tucked in safely. "You've… done something… to the Captain, haven't you?"

"More than some _thing_ , but a lady doesn't kiss and tell," she answered, but the usual smug smirk she would have worn wasn't there.

I might have blushed, once, but no longer. He hadn't moved into her quarters—though that was where she moved him for the time being—but he might as well for all the nights they spend together. I felt sure she wanted him there for her own peace of mind.

"But I think I know to what you are referring. The answer is no— _I_ haven't _done_ anything to him. He's done it to himself and for his own reasons." She finally sounded smug, but there was something else in her, a sort of grim satisfaction that wasn't aimed at the Captain.

"What is it?" I asked softly.

She considered, then shrugged. "I've taught him how to close his mind, to protect himself from the various tricks, manipulations and… violations… a Force-user might apply to gain his cooperation if asking nicely doesn't work."

The vicious satisfaction was understandable: she didn't want Baras putting the Captain into a position not of the Captain's choosing. I always felt that the Captain came across as being more or less immune to the lower order of tricks Force-users use, adding emotional tugs and accents in order to manipulate or persuade, and to most outright compulsions provided they didn't go against his will.

According to her, even those aren't a concern now, unless applied by a Sith of equal or greater ability than her... and what that means, since it's the Captain who built this bunker I don't know. Someone with more mental fortitude than he's got? Or is this the sort of that, if penetrated or damaged, will destroy the mind it guards?

It didn't do my state of mind much good. Force tricks aren't the only way to get someone to cooperate, and the Captain was Baras' man long before he was Her Lordship's. Nevertheless, I didn't ask her how she knew the Captain wasn't playing a game with her. She might be confident that he was her creature, but I wasn't.

"We discussed the nature of the Force deaf. You've heard him complain when his focus is disrupted. It isn't focus of the usual sort, although he employs that, too. Some part of him is listening, straining to hear something just beyond reach. Many of Baras' key personnel are Force-deaf; it gives them an edge." Her Lordship frowned, then shook her head. "In this case, it makes Quinn's mental safeguards stronger than if he was truly non-Sensitive, made it easier for him to construct them. This doesn't leave the room—he'd be annoyed to find out."

"I understand completely." And he would be, too.

 **Interim**

We were on Belsavis for a solid week before most of us were any good to anyone. Between medical treatments to get everyone back on his or her feet and getting the airlock fixed, we needed every day and over. Fortunately, I suppose, that wasn't our choice: we went where the Hand pointed and they'd been utterly silent.

Her Lordship and Broonmark hunted as soon as he was well enough—before that, she hunted alone. I don't think it mattered to Her Lordship who she went after, who she killed, as long as she felt she was doing something constructive. Broonmark, I know, wouldn't care. So she lent her and Broonmark's arms to the Imperial efforts. She checked in on us at sunrise before she went out, and was back at sunset.

Her Lordship's temper during the day didn't sweeten—this might have been because, while not lodging on the _Blight_ she and the Captain maintained a professional relationship. Although the noise over our connection dulled and dampened, and I made sure to keep my end firmly shut, it couldn't be plainer she was digging herself a deep abyss of hatred and darkness, filling it with rage and every ounce of suffering she and the rest of us had gone through. She'd envelope Baras in it when she caught up with him, drown him in it, suffocate him, ruin him… and then kill him.

It was less than he deserved.

On the eighth day, she took me with her and Broonmark. It was a long, long day because she didn't take me back to the medical facility when I finally reached my limits. We simply sat down and took a break. We only started back in order to be at the outpost by sunset. Then, she'd check on the Captain who—after a very real argument, raised voices and everything—had returned to light duty.

I always knew he _could_ snarl back at her if pushed far enough; apparently 'far enough' finally arrived and Her Lordship backed down. I think a 'minor' breach of decorum followed, but the door was shut on our bond, and I had no desire to eavesdrop. Regardless, her temper did seem a bit sunnier the next time I saw her. Maybe that was why she backed down—a demonstration that he was more than recovered enough to handle _her_ , therefore a little thing like desk work was nothing to make a fuss about.

I think he saw the reality: Her Lordship, like most Sith, is fairly egocentric. So when she worries about someone else, someone who really matters, she doesn't have the necessary experience to avoid trying to smother the object of her affection. Essentially, she overcompensates due to lack of practice.

Her Lordship's hunting habits on Belsavis remained the same for the next five days, at the end of which I felt exhausted… but not quite as weak. It was grueling, but oh so necessary, because I would be back in the field on Her Lordship's business before long.

It was during this time that I really gave my 'relationship' with Rathari some thought. I'd wondered if it might go anywhere. I was too aware it was _nothing_ like Her Lordship's relationship with the Captain.

In the end, I decided, it really was just a thing. It wasn't even convenient, considering how much time we spent apart. What really got me thinking, I suppose, was the fact that I didn't feel any need or inclination to reach out to him, to feel something familiar. My first really Sith relationship, I suppose.

Or maybe I was just tired. Goodness knew five days in the field—plus Belsavis being hot and muggy—when I didn't feel field ready was enough to make anyone maudlin and obsess over stupid, trivial things. I had no energy, but slept badly.

Or maybe it was knowing that Her Lordship made mistakes. I don't mean anything to do with our run-in with Draahg, by no means. I mean that she's a Sith who loves. Because there was no way her relationship with the Captain was anything _but_ love… on her side. They've almost always been discreet, but I'm not the rabble, so I possessed better insight. It was unnerving at best, and I was glad he saw more clearly than I did that awful day, when he pointed out that making him look like he was being protected would paint a great big target all over him…

…and in doing so, truly wound Her Lordship. Knowing what I knew about her tempers and what touched them… she would be content to rule an empire of _ashes_ rather than fail to take full and excessive revenge against the person who snuffed out Captain Malavai Quinn, everyone involved, everyone involved with those involved.

Draahg would probably have beat him to a pulp, broken him by inches, then killed him in front of Her Lordship out of spite. I didn't like to think about it. As it was, he'd been knocked around as if Draahg felt somewhat inferior to this Force deaf fellow who simply refused to go down (so Vette said, once she could say anything).

To be honest, I was still scared, still waking up in cold sweats. I didn't seem to be having as bad a time as Vette, though. Then again, she had to see the rest of us pulped before Draahg started on her.

 **On Sith Intricacies**

I rolled my shoulders as I entered the _Astral Blight_. We were still on Belsavis, but only because there was nothing more constructive to do, but we'd moved back onto the ship. The Hand had begun checking in with Her Lordship, apparently having trouble pinpointing _exactly_ where her next objective was.

With my strength returning, and after involving myself with a charming member of the garrison, I'd started setting out on a series of short jaunts. I wasn't ignorant that hunting Light-side Sith was beginning to lose its luster. Part of me hoped it was just this mess with Baras clouding everything over, sapping the joy out of my work. It galled me that he was so unassailable that Her Lordship couldn't simply stomp up to wherever he was and wring his wretched neck.

I found Her Lordship and the Captain sitting at the dinner table, looking so somber that words just jumped into my throat. "Who died? Was it Vette?" She was getting better, bouncing back. She'd started to give wry smiles when Pierce, trying so hard, made dumb comments or over-obvious jokes. Apparently, when it came to small, blue, injured shipmates, he had a soft spot; the bouncy Twi'lek quiet, hurt, and unhappy was more than he could deal with gracefully.

Her Lordship relieved my worry—and brought me back to the present—with a chuckle. "No one has died and Vette was well enough to cause a skirmish at the cantina. She even walked away under her own steam." Probably because Pierce was there to back her up.

"Oh, good." I sat down at the table, regarded the fact that their hands lay on the table, loosely linked. Not shared grief then, because as I've discovered Sith feel other emotions than rage and hate—and feel them just as strongly. The only difference between rage/hate and say, affection or grief, is that the latter two can be exploited. They need to stay hidden for the safety of all involved.

"Quinn has asked me to marry him."

For a moment the words didn't quite translate. I mean, I heard them and understood them, but I didn't know why they both looked so grim. "I don't… shouldn't that be a happy thing? If it wasn't he'd be picking himself up off the floor—"

"Thank you," the Captain murmured dryly.

"I'm _Sith_ , Jaesa," Her Lordship said flatly, with a bite in her tone that stung like a slap. A 'wake up and think, moron' kind of slap.

Oh. "Oh… I understand completely."

"Completely?" And, just like that, her mild humor returned.

"The concepts, absolutely." Her affection towards him is real. Real and deep. That's not something anyone should ever know. They might try to hurt him to get to her.

She can give him her hand. She can even take his name (unwise, on the whole). But she can't ever be like a normal wife. So much would have to be kept secret or obscured. No public displays of affection, as such. No hint that he's more to her than a useful tool or a favored toy, something it amuses her to keep close. That he's Force deaf helps—most Sith would assume it's just convenient for her and beneficial to his career to have the patronage of such a powerful Sith. That's not an uncommon arrangement, from what I can tell.

Still… how does that feel, knowing she genuinely cares for him ( _if_ he knows) but can only show that genuine nature when no one can see? I imagine it would become grueling at some point. It's something that will be harder for him than for her.

"It sounds… very difficult." And that without the concern that someone might think to use him to get to her—even a favored toy can be exploited. I couldn't help thinking back to Draahg and what he might have done if he'd realized the Captain was important to Her Lordship.

"It will be," Her Lordship answered quietly.

The Captain said nothing, but his grip on her hands tightened, expression set in decisive lines. Apparently she was a woman worth the difficulties, the struggles.

Part of me wondered what _that_ would feel like. To be that truly, genuinely important to someone. To have the professional be seen all day, every day, for days at a time with only evidences of loveless carnal amusement, for the sake of maybe a few hours of honesty away from public eyes. Sith feel things deeply; apparently the Captain had a deeper, more vibrant nature than I realized. Then, perhaps, anyone but Her Lordship realized. Or cared to.

"It's too late now. I've had a blazing row with _Dahdee_ over it. Mother will make his life miserable for weeks." There was a note of sadness, of melancholy in her voice.

I imagine Lord Augustine exploded all over the place because his rising star of a daughter (engaged in a to-the-death war with a Darth who seems ridiculously politically powerful) meant to marry a Force deaf (the word used was probably non-Sensitive) Imperial junior officer. It was a match so far beneath her it barely bore contemplating—and she'd done more than contemplate it!

Hence part of why Magdalena will give him hell; Moff Thorne was, after all, her dear friend which was why he was Her Lordship's godfather. And Magdalena liked the Captain, as far as she knew him.

Personally, knowing Lord Augustine as I did, and Her Lordship too, I couldn't help thinking that this supposed row was half posturing on his part—the Captain is of humble origin and means, most would say Her Lordship is so far out of his league as not to be breathing the same air—and half meant to get about. Minor insulation for her family from the escalating war between Baras and herself. Somehow, I doubt the fact that the row is ostentatiously about a marriage will get out. Just the fact that they'd rifted would. I didn't know how much this supposed schism would reduce the target on Lord Augustine's and Magdalena's backs, but I hoped it would be enough to keep them from anything catastrophic.

Or maybe it's just for future use. She's the Emperor's Wrath; the fewer close relationships people see or know about, the safer for those individuals.

"Well," I mused, studying their hands. "I'm sure it will come right, somehow. I'm happy for you both." I didn't see why they couldn't just leave a good arrangement like it was. Why add the extra danger?

…can Sith be forced into marriages not of their choosing?

Marriage is a serious business in the Empire. Divorce is very uncommon. From what I hear, Sith are more likely to kill their partner in order to move on. Then again, Sith seem to marry most often for gain. Of course—assuming this thing with Lord Augustine is just a farce to be 'patched up' later—Her Lordship couldn't gain much from any marriage she entered into. She's got a position among the Sith (which, although needing to be acknowledge to be completely valid, is nevertheless very high) and she's wealthy in her own right, regardless of whatever she'll inherit when her parents pass. She's quite independent.

I sighed inwardly and decided to simply accept that Her Lordship doesn't like to be told. So I mentally wished them contentment—I don't think happiness is really a Sith thing—before making myself a promise to do what I could to ensure said contentment.


	45. Chapter 45

**Voss, Part I**

Her Lordship and the Captain didn't get married right away, although he moved into her quarters one day while I was filling up time roaming Belsavis (and killing anything in my way). Pierce moved into the now-empty space in order to free him from being stuck with the girls—something Pierce was profoundly grateful for, even if he did seem a bit grumpy about the Captain having 'all the luck.' He should be happy: the apprentice's quarters have a real shower with real water.

Pierce appreciated Her Lordship, but he appreciated annoying the Captain even more and—rough, unrefined creature that he is—it was just in Pierce's character to think that Her Lordship preferring him to the Captain's educated, refined being would be galling to the Captain. I don't know what really goes on in a man's head… without looking. That was just the impression I had.

The Hand contacted us in the middle of dinner the night sleeping arrangements changed with a target and a mission: we were going to Voss.

Predictably, the Captain knew about it. Surprisingly, so did Pierce. A newly discovered world, it had repelled an Imperial attempt to invade some time ago. The usual tactic failing, the Imperials were now playing diplomat. So was the Republic. All the while, the Voss stood in the middle, waiting to pick a side and reaping the benefits of being desirable.

The interesting point for Her Lordship and me were the Force-users there. Apparently, Voss were ruled by a Force sensitive caste called 'Mystics' whose predictions always— _always_ , italics and all—came true. Moreover, their world seemed to see the Force as one big grey blob, not stratified the way the Jedi and Sith see it.

Her Lordship accepted the 'grey area of the Force' theory absently, but scowled at the accuracy in seeing the future thing. She's not a big believer in trying to work the future from the present. While she doesn't decry fate and destiny, she doesn't believe that following a prepared route to an end counts as destiny.

'Destiny' is a label applied _ex post facto_ , and visions often hide salient details. However thin her mouth got as she learned about the Mystics, it didn't dampen the academic curiosity.

It seems to work for Baras, though—subtle manipulations of short-term events to tug a desired outcome into place. It's really an art he has going, moving things by inches so as not to disrupt but to encourage the end he wants.

It won't save him from Her Lordship. Still, it's important to appreciate the things that should be appreciated.

Our job was to find the 'Voice of the Emperor,' the entity Baras claimed to be. The Hand was a bit vague, but apparently Baras got the Voice to go look into something on Voss with the result that the Voice couldn't get out of some position or other. Because the Emperor isn't obliged to tell anyone where he (or his tool) is going, no one was sure where to look in spite of the general area being known. Planets are big places when one wants to find something specific.

 _I_ had the impression they just had trouble finding anything _on Voss_ , so they to look slowly and carefully, maybe even in person or through contacts. Who wants to admit that?

Anyway, our task was to either free the Voice (and return him to his rightful place) or to take the Emperor's orders should we run into unforeseen complications.

The idea of being that close to the Emperor was staggering. So much so that I begged Her Lordship for a crash course on how Sith should behave in front of him. I didn't trust that normal good manners would be good enough, but bashing my forehead on the ground as I groveled in submissive reverence didn't seem befitting of a Sith. Even in the face of the Emperor, Sith, I think, are expected to maintain a certain sense of dignity.

I might as well have saved myself the trouble of asking, since her response was that it was unlikely I would have to say anything. She would pay the reverences due to her master, and I should take such things one step further, conducting myself like a good apprentice ought. She didn't say it _quite_ like that, but that was the gist of it.

When we walked out of the airlock onto the small landing pad, I had to blink several times. It was as if someone had put a color filter across my eyes, rendering everything in tones of gold and brown. The air actually _felt_ golden, strange as that might sound. It was unnerving in the extreme.

Or maybe that was the way the Force moved. As soon as I forced my mind to accept the color-saturated environment, I reached out to touch the Force. It was… strange. Light and Dark coexisting, shifting like the beat of some great, steady heart in the middle of an oddly comingled whole. I didn't like it; so much so that I worried it might affect my ability to use the Force… like wearing someone else's shoes while trying to go about my daily routines.

The natives were as colorful as the environment. The Voss were a tall people, with strange solid-tone eyes—rather like those of the Chiss—which was a little intimidating. Males were blue (with amber eyes), females red (with blue eyes). In the time it took to reach Darth Serevin's offices (a courtesy visit by Her Lordship), the Voss demonstrated themselves to be a frank people, open-minded, curious, and mild in their speech.

Her Lordship thus engaged with Darth Serevin (with the Captain also in attendance), I meandered to the market, the better to people-watch.

Less interesting but more immediate was seeing Republic and Imperial personnel milling about in complete and utter well-mannered neutrality. Unlike Nar Shaddaa, or most Cartel worlds, Voss' position of neutrality was absolute. This meant that most of the people from both factions allowed onto the planet were not diplomatic risks; no young hotheads, in other words. Anything that might annoy or offend the Voss took place well away from the city and the Voss' watchful eyes.

I'd just finished this line of thought when a pair of Mandalorians strode by at their leisure, gabbling to one another. They didn't hold hands, but they stood so close together as they walked that they didn't need to.

I had to repress a grin: from a diplomat's point of view, it was bad enough to have one Mandalorian on the ground when the political situation was delicate. From the array of equipment the woman carried, it couldn't be clearer that she was a bounty hunter. Few others carry carbonite deployment devices.

Two Mandalorians was like… political volatility _squared_ instead of just multiplied.

Someone, somewhere was having all kinds of headaches.

The woman suddenly stopped her companion and diverted the both of them to a vendor, catching his hand to do so. For a few moments the woman negotiated with the vendor, then selected a fist-sized piece of fruit, shrugging at something her companion said. They walked over to the big fountain in the square, sat down on the edge, and took off their helmets. Sun gleamed off his blonde hair, and warmed her caramel-toned skin.

The woman cut the fruit with a knife her partner produced before offering him half. It looked like a little teasing or joking was involved; she sliced off a piece and ate it, gesturing as if to say 'it's to poisoned', to which he laughed… then ate the second piece she sliced off from between her fingers, which made her laugh in her turn before passing him half of the fruit. He seemed to tease her a little more, whispering something in her ear, ending in her giving his shoulder a playful push.

They looked… I don't know. Happy wasn't quite the right word, nor content, either. It was… more. Encompassing. Somehow, their open affection seemed… right. Not embarrassing to witness, like that seething sizzle Her Lordship and the Captain are _still_ indulging in. I thought those little moments, the non-explicit ones that always make me so uncomfortable, would stop once they, you know. Got going.

Apparently not. In fact, I'd almost say they're worse in that the frequency of said embarrassments has gone up.

Forgetting them, one hears about Mandalorian warriors and their actions—usually violent actions. I don't think I'd ever considered what a Mandalorian _couple_ would look like. They were young, somewhere in their very early twenties, and seemed so glad to just be together, sharing a piece of local fruit while they studied their surroundings with frank interest.

It returned me to thinking about the Captain and Her Lordship. Just considering the complexities and dangers they faced… it made the golden light grow somehow dim.

"You're going to bring on the rain with a face like that," Her Lordship announced indulgently.

"Sorry. It's weird seeing Mandalorians without their helmets." I didn't need to look to see the Captain's disapproving expression. He's not fond of the Mandalorians, but I think that's more to do with the fact that technically they don't belong to the Empire. They're free agents whose services the Empire frequently enjoys. But they're their own entity, even if it isn't in the same fashion as the Chiss and the Voss.

By this time, the Mandalorians had finished their snack, put their helmets back on, and continued on their way.

"Someone, somewhere, is having migraines," Her Lordship observed.

"I was thinking much the same thing, my lord." It was a good thing, overall, that since Draahg's attack Broonmark had taken a marked interest in Vette. He'd certainly been fussing like a protective elder ever since (and, which was telling, Vette didn't argue or resist). With evidence that Broonmark had things in paw, Pierce had backed off in his efforts to… I don't know. 'Help.' Part of me thinks he was rather relieved, since trying to bolster the mental and emotional wellbeing of injured girls is _not_ his forte.

"See to the resupply, Captain. I'll keep in touch."

"Yes, my lord." The Captain bowed politely as Her Lordship strode off.

 **Voss, Part II**

The golden light gave way to bloody red as the sun began to set. It gave everything a baleful look which left me feeling edgy. Or maybe it was the perception of something… dark. Not dark. _Hungry_. It wasn't in a place I could locate, but it was definitely a presence.

"I do appreciate the bepps, Captain," Her Lordship noted, examining the one in her hand.

" _I'm pleased that they suit you, my lord,_ " the Captain answered.

We were camping overnight since Her Lordship didn't want to drop in on the hermit we were looking for after dark. We might be on a mission for the Hand (and, by extension, the Emperor) but Her Lordship wasn't inclined to do anything that might affect diplomatic relations if she didn't have to. She was a servant of the Emperor, yes. But she was a servant of the Empire and had been for much longer. That didn't just go away.

I had to wonder if that was something which kept power or prestige (such as it was, but with what it would be kept firmly in mind) from going to her head. She had the Empire to worry about, its strength, its resilience. I could only suppose it came from having a non-Sensitive mother, a non-Sensitive godfather serving as an officer in the Imperial Armed Forces, and having the man she loved also belonging to that entity.

It was strange to consider. Most Sith worried about advancing themselves, scrabbling for clout or advancement (something one often saw reflected in the non-Sensitive echelons). In Her Lordship's case, clout came to her. Energy not focused on tasks delegated to her tended to gravitate towards strengthening the Empire as a whole—not just the Sith Order. In fact… I tried and couldn't think of a single time she really did anything to advance the Sith as an entity.

Oh, don't get me wrong, she's definitely self-serving and selfish—most Sith are—she always benefits from any encounter she goes into. I wouldn't call her a good person by any stretch of the word. It was simply that she viewed power as a means to an end, utterly useless if one couldn't use it. Unlike so many Sith, she chose to apply that which she accumulated to something bigger than herself. I'd almost say 'to an ideal'… but only almost. She's not the idealistic sort.

"It is rather pleasant here," Her Lordship observed, looking around at the landscape around our camp.

"The Force moves strangely," I answered frowningly. "And the ambiance is dreary."

Her Lordship actually laughed. "That it does, and that it is. Still, it's a wonderful change from Hoth, Taris and Tatooine."

I shuddered. "Ice cubes, swamps and sandboxes. Let's hear it for the dreary ambience."

"I believe I'm in agreement with Vette. We need a vacation. Somewhere pleasant."

"Coruscant is lovely this time of year," I observed before unwrapping my bepp and biting into it. The texture was still weird, like ice cream without the cold that doesn't melt. Still better than ration bars, though.

"Oh, a little recreational marauding and daily rampages for the benefit of my constitution do sound lovely," she answered mildly.

"Exercise _is_ important. And the hotels are extravagant enough to please the most ostentatious person." I couldn't very well tease her about honeymoon destinations or cruises or whatever. I might have, had it been a safe topic. But since it wasn't, I finished my bepp in silence, feeling the compressions of the giant heartbeat in the Force on Voss.

 **Voss, Part III**

Hermits are alike all across the galaxy—although Madaga-Ru's home had more colorful rugs than most. The spot of color was good to see, since the stonework was so flat and grey after the painfully pink dawn light. Nar Shaddaa's ambient lighting has _nothing_ on this world, let me tell you. The lights are so saturated and intense that you start to think you might permanently turn whatever the color of the hour is.

"I am Madaga-Ru. I appeared at the signal pyre, I appear here," the Voss observed. It was hard to tell, since his eyes weren't what I would call normal, but I had the impression he was studying Her Lordship very carefully indeed. Unease rippled around him. "I have seen your like before." Something in his tone detached. "Of Voss, but housing darkness."

"Good. I'm looking for him," Her Lordship answered.

The Voss was silent for a long moment. "There is much I could tell you," he finally responded, tone guarded but not timorous. "But on Voss, everything that is gained is paid for."

"And what would you ask for your secret?"

The Voss' mouth curved slightly. "Naturally, another secret. Any one will do."

There was a test in this. It wasn't a quality in his words, it wasn't anything I could put my finger on, but this Voss was testing Her Lordship for… something.

She studied him for another moment. Sith don't give up secrets lightly. I had the impression this Voss would know if she was lying. She was too dignified to be flippant with her answer. "My former master required me to kill an enemy. I defeated that man and made him my minion. I went to great pains to ensure that the wider galaxy thinks he is dead."

Rathari.

The Voss continued his silent study, the nodded. "The price is paid. The one you seek forced me to unlock the secrets of Voss. I could not defy him, but everything gained on Voss is paid for: he went to the Dark Heart chamber in the Nightmare lands. He will never return."

Without help. 'He will never return… without help.'

"I see. Tell me about the Dark Heart."

…does it have to do with the strange heartbeat in the Force?

"It is forbidden. Secrets are buried there."

Of course it is.

Her Lordship's eyes narrowed, less with anger and more with thoughtfulness. The Voss was playing a game with her, learning her, by making her ask questions. She wouldn't like that at all. "How did this entity approach these… Nightmare Lands?"

"He wrapped himself in the Blessing of Oneness."

The conversation was like pulling teeth, so I left it to Her Lordship and _looked_ at Madaga-Ru. _He was… strange. Because he was Voss? There was no 'light' or 'dark' just… he just was, as if he existed outside petty delineations. He was searching for something, something he thought Her Lordship might help him find. But the declaration that all gain required payment seemed ground into the very fiber of his being._

I blinked back to myself, feeling like I hadn't learned a damned thing. That's unusual.

"The larger the need, the larger the price," Her Lordship observed to a comment I'd missed.

"True. Now, off. Go to the Shrine. Get the Blessing. I will guide you when I can."

Because he wants something. I'm just not sure what.

Her Lordship simply turned on her heel and withdrew. "I thought I saw you reading him."

I didn't ask what she saw to tell her that. Maybe a glazed expression. "He's searching for something. He thinks you can help him find it. It's very strange. The Force moves around and through him, but it's not… it just…"

"Is," Her Lordship finished.

I nodded. "Is." It wasn't even what I could describe as neutral. In fact, it was easier to say what it wasn't, except that 'wasn't' changed every time one tried to put it into words. It was maddening.

"The Shrine of Healing," Her Lordship mused, rolling the words around in her mouth. "That may be interesting in and of itself."

It sounded like a place where Mystics might congregate. Otherwise, they'd call it a hospital or an infirmary or something equally mundane.

"It may behoove us to take a little time there, see what there is to be seen."

I agree. Having seen some Jedi rituals and some Sith rituals, I was mildly curious to see if the Voss had any equivalent of their own.

 **Voss, Part IV**

The journey to the Shrine of Healing was almost a trial in itself. Gormak, another native species, seemed to have… issues… with the Voss and as a result tended to attack _everyone_ on sight. Their vision must not be very good, for one would think they'd realize one, we aren't Voss and two, we tend to react with an extreme when attacked.

By now, I no longer flinched before a fight, no longer hesitated. I'd had that problem on Belsavis. Still, even now, somewhere in the back of my mind, instinct screamed at me to run away. I wrote it off as a result of Draahg's thrashing, so I'll be damned if I let that worm put me off my game for longer than absolutely necessary.

I won't be in that position ever again. Weak. Defenseless. Scared. The only thing I can say was that I met the fight head-on and with determination. Fear and the rest came later. It's a long way from my Jedi days. I found the knowledge comforting.

The Voss architecture was pleasant. In Voss-Ka (or that part of it into which foreigners were allowed) the buildings sported curved construction, or at least rounded corners. Here, at the Shrine, the older architecture sported more straight lines. It wasn't the same straightness and angularness of Imperial architecture, lacked the heavy solidity, but I could see why an injured person might feel safe here.

And, of course, the ubiquitous mats and wall hangings brought a splash of much-needed color to the grey stone.

Her Lordship stopped us before a Voss kneeling among many mats occupied by many other Voss and one Zabrak. It couldn't be plainer that they were sick or injured. The Force swirled softly around the Voss Mystic (I assumed that was what she was, at least). Suddenly, the slow swirl sucked in towards her like water being pulled suddenly into a vertical pipe. From her raised hands emanated power, but strangely changed, transmuted, as if she somehow filtered it, made it purpose-specific.

Several of her patients twitched, showed signs that she'd done something… then she gave a shuddering gasp and hunched forward, the brunt of her weight supported by arms which shook as she panted, a thin whine of pain escaping her.

Her Lordship took a knee and regarded the Voss. "You are Vana-Xo, are you not?"

"I am," the Voss answered in a frail voice. She trembled and, although I couldn't see above her nose because I still stood, I couldn't miss the tears that slipped down her cheeks.

"I require the Blessing of Oneness." Not, to my surprise, a command. It was simply a statement.

Well, I suppose if she's being tested for something, she'd treat the journey appropriately until she knows what she's being tested for. That means a little circumspection.

"…I could give it," Vana-Xo answered softly. "But I am uncertain whether I should. You are not Voss, and the Blessing bestows…privileges. You cause my insides to scream."

I snorted, then tried to act as though it was a sneeze, for Her Lordship glowered at me so fiercely I ended up taking a step back. Her meaning was plain: if I couldn't treat this with the gravitas it deserved, then I should leave the room. My cheeks turned hot as I bowed my head. So much for coming so far… even as a Jedi I knew not to be flippant during any kind of ritual—especially the path of trial type.

Her Lordship returned her attention to Vana-Xo. "That's unfortunate. But if you refuse, I shall make your outsides scream. And how does that help anyone, really?"

Vana-Xo sucked air. "…I make myself available."

Her Lordship adopted a listening attitude, and Vana-Xo took the hint.

"To be granted the Blessing, a sacrifice must be made." Her Lordship's features hardened. That's not something you want to tell a Sith, but Vana-Xo ignored it. "I prevent these ill and injured from worsening. To heal, I siphon strength from the able." It was Vana-Xo's turn to let silence speak.

Her Lordship took the Voss' meaning, but not happily. Her eyes roved over the ill and injured, weighing in her mind her decision to follow this convoluted path (rather than hammer her way through as the Emperor had—but that's his privilege, I suppose) versus the idea of weakening herself. She might have been a little less critical or upset had the Captain been present—he had the medical training and could explain anything to her if she required it—but as it was she had me.

"I'll do it, my lord," I offered, kneeling beside her.

Her Lordship shook her head sharply. When she spoke, however, her tone was neutral. "Thank you, Jaesa, but I think that defeats the purpose." The shrewd, hard expression on Her Lordship's face held a threat that she might or might not be able to act upon. "On Voss, all that is gained is paid for."

"You understand," Vana-Xo agreed, lifting her hands.

Her Lordship took a fortifying breath, then moved onto one of the unused mats—a purple one which, I noticed, didn't clash with her hair. She's fond of purple, but it does tend to clash with red hair. She must have noticed the lack of clashing as well, or she'd have gone with a blue or green one.

"You will be unharmed," Vana-Xo assured her, lifting her hands.

Her Lordship simply closed her eyes, the Force coiling choppily around her as she braced for the unknown. Suddenly she gasped, light (which I'm sure a non-Sensitive wouldn't see) flared out around her, dark red and ominous. Her breath hitched, eyes flying open to reveal the same light she radiated.

Vana-Xo placed one finger over Her Lordship's breastbone, then gestured with her other hand at the sick and injured. Her Lordship's bloody luminescence twisted and wound around Vana-Xo's arm, passing into the Mystic, then along the other arm in a stream of silver-gold to disperse as a mist. Her Lordship gave a soft, strangled sound, her back bending as if Vana-Xo had begun pulling on something rooted in Her Lordship's chest. During all this operation, the light around her began to dissipate, ending with that in her eyes. As soon as they were properly white and orange again, Vana-Xo removed her siphoning finger.

Her Lordship slumped forward where she knelt, breathing even and undisturbed.

"She sleeps," Vana-Xo said simply. When I looked up, I found that more than half the infirm seemed to be rousing themselves, getting up to leave. "She is very strong." Many of those who had not been restored to the point of leaving seemed, at least, to be in less pain.

"She is."

"And the Blessing of Oneness has been bestowed. She will sleep for a time." With that, Vana-Xo gently lay Her Lordship down on the mat, straightening her limbs as she did so. "I will watch. This is the Shrine of Healing. It is the safest place on Voss."

I stayed where I was for several long minutes, watching Her Lordship sleep as Vana-Xo went back to her duties. I wasn't tired, but it looked like Her Lordship was out for the night. Since there was nothing to do, and knowing that Her Lordship would resent the time lost and push to make it up tomorrow, I got to my feet, wandering away from Vana-Xo's space.

 **Voss, Part V**

I rose dazedly to my feet, body feeling strangely heavy. For a moment I didn't know where I was, then as if needing to know made it real, I found myself standing in lady Gesselle's chambers on Alderaan. Or, rather, a version of it constructed by vision—Vision—and my own mind, my own experiences.

It was… extraordinarily _real_ , like I was actually back there. Open windows let the spring breezes in, birdsong and the voices of chattering courtiers likewise entered through them.

"Forgive me, honored one!"

I turned sharply. Unlike in dreams, the motion as just as abrupt and crisp as it would have been had I been waking.

The Voss was out of place, dressed like an Alderaanian noble but Voss. He stopped in the doorway to the room and bowed.

"Yes? What do you want?" Unease flared in my guts. The dissonance between the man versus his clothes and the setting affected me more than it should. More than I thought it should.

"I seek your guidance," he answered, sounding mildly puzzled himself that I had to ask.

"…very well." I cast around, found a chair and sank onto it.

"I have had a vision, but what I saw was strange… and troubling."

Hm. I know the feeling.

"I'm still in training. I need your help to discover the meaning behind my vision."

I opened my mouth to tell him to tell me what he saw, then stopped. This is a _Voss_ ritual. Not a Jedi ritual. Not a Sith ritual. Voss. So far, everything I've seen on this world conforms or is made to conform to Voss ideology and philosophy. "I can see how that would be troubling. Is it usual for potentials to see the aid of Mystics in such a way?"

"No. Potentials' visions are unusually clear. I am the first to ask. You are a Mystic, you have had many visions and much experience. You know what to look for. My vision could mean great things… or terrible ones. I _must_ be certain of its meaning." As he spoke, and although the words sounded strangely scripted, the Voss grew increasingly more earnest, increasingly more enthusiastic, attention fixed desperately on me to give him answers.

On the one hand, it was flattering… but on the other, I know beans about interpreting visions. I'm still not sure about anything with regards to the one I'm having… but then again, I haven't finished it.

"Mystic?" the Voss prompted hopefully.

I looked up from my lap, from the swathe of black robes. "I know nothing of interpreting visions," I said blankly, full realization of what I said hitting me like a punch. "It is not a Mystic's place to interpret. Merely to see and to convey." Because, of course, Voss life revolves around one's position, and one's position is limited, intersecting and joining with those of others, responsibilities shared and interlocked.

"But, Honored One—"

"No. I am a Mystic. I am not an Interpreter."

The Voss cocked his head. "A Mystic must know his role. You understand."

-J-

It wasn't actually Tython. The only reason I felt certain was because the Force didn't feel right. It might look, sound, register as Tython, but it was still Voss. The sound of feet made me turn and I had to stifle a yelp and a snarl.

Nomen Karr stood in a doorway, hands folded behind his back, expression that calmly patronizing one I hated so much. "Come."

I balked at taking his orders, even knowing it wasn't really him. However, the alternative being what it was, I forced myself to move, tried to shove aside the grim resentment threatening to obscure my thoughts. The last bit of vision felt like a passive test, 'show me what you are.' This… this felt more like a real test, placing me in front of something antagonistic to see what I do, how it affects me.

But I've moved past everything to do with Karr but the lingering resentment. Seeing him unexpectedly shook that up, but everything settled down again as I concentrated on the Voss-ness of the Force.

When I saw him again, it wasn't Karr, not really, simply a Voss in his clothes that evoked a strong sense of the man I so despised. We walked through the Jedi Temple at an unhurried pace, all the way to the infirmary. "Do you see her?"

I moved forward to investigate the Padawan to whom Karr motioned. "I see her." It wasn't anyone I knew, just a face and body placed for the purposes of this vision.

"The vision is clear: a Voss will be brought to the Shrine for healing. This person must survive. You are our best healer, yet you were not in the vision," he declared.

The Jedi on the bed couched and whined in pain, shifting restlessly.

"A lesser healer has been seen, and must take your place."

I frowned at the Voss-Karr, ignoring the suffering patient. "That sounds pretty straightforward. I don't understand."

"Others object on your behalf," Voss-Karr continued. "They must hear your words. Only the healer in the vision will succeed. Another could bring disaster."

I found myself shaking my head at him. The Voss way is clear: the Mystics see, the rest of the Voss adhere to what was seen. Even other Mystics, I think, adhere to visions had by others about themselves. "I don't know why we're still discussing this. The vision says it isn't my task to fulfill." My brow wrinkled; this seems pretty obvious to me. And I'm no healer, not really.

"The vision asks you to step aside," Voss-Karr agreed.

"The right tool for the right job and apparently that isn't me. There's nothing left to discuss." The confusion and frustration made the vision seem to slip, as though I'd shake myself right out of it if I didn't get myself under control. "Just because you're the best doesn't mean you _have_ to do everything. There's always something else you can be doing."

"A Mystic must know his place. You understand."

Thank goodness.

-J-

I wasn't surprised or disappointed to find myself standing somewhere in the Sith Academy. Nor was I surprised to see a Voss-Her Lordship enter the room. "There you are. Time grows short."

Because that's _just_ like her. Some of my upset began to clear. "Then let's not waste it."

"Very good. Part of your vision is already clear: we must join the Republic or the Empire to survive." The Voss-Her Lordship prowled about the edges of the room, a perfect mimicry of the real thing. "The Interpreters have spent months debating."

My guts tightened. How much of this is just me? Is anyone else eavesdropping? Is this _all_ in my head, or can the Mystics access it somehow, gain insight on how to judge the Empire and Republic?

"The outsiders grow restless."

"I—" I gagged on my words, Her Lordship's voice—memory, nothing more—echoing in my head. Something about patience, tugged out of the back of my mind by the word _restless_.

' _The very best Sith are the ones who have patience._ '

"Yes?"

"I… is it usual for the Interpreters to take so long?" I asked lamely, wracking my brains to see where this was going. Or where I needed it to go.

"Never with such an important vision. Interpreters are chosen by the Mystics. You can replace them. The Interpreters stress patience. Can we afford to wait?"

Patience. It crystallized for me the precise use of set and character through the first two parts of this vision. Seeing Her Lordship represented by a Voss, hearing Her Lordship's philosophies echoed by the path of vision… it wasn't something I could really describe, but I felt curious, as though some part of me, some sleepy and stupid part, had abruptly woken up to lend itself to the whole.

"A decision of this sort cannot be rushed. Mystics have visions, but visions are worthless unless interpreted correctly. We will wait."

The Voss-Her Lordship nodded. "A Mystic must know her role. You understand." With that, she began to walk. "Corruption lies ahead. Destroy the source."

"What kind of corruption?" I asked, hurrying to keep up with her.

She stopped by a door, unmistakably Voss in origin. "The sort with which you must deal."

-J-

To say I was 'cleaning corruption' oversimplified. It shouldn't be possible to feel physical exertion when, technically, I wasn't using my body at all. Nevertheless, I found myself fighting through a tide of strange beasts, unlike anything in my experience which made the experience that much more _of Voss._

The end of the fight through what resembled the Shrine of Healing came abruptly, leaving me facing a pair of Voss. Like Nomen Karr, like Her Lordship, they were Voss… but they were to be interpreted as someone else. In this case me. Or rather my Reflection and my Imprint from Tatooine. One Jedi. One Sith. But both struck me as only _looking_ like two separate entities.

"Outsider."

"We are impressed."

"The trials are for the Mystics."

"Yet you survive."

"I'm good at that," I answered, shivering. Although they spoke distinctly, there was something in the quality of their words, like the wake when one drags one's fingers through water: the wakes knock together and disrupt each other. "Is this the end of the trials?" The last time I saw these two, or something like them, was at the end of a trial.

"One trial remains."

"Visions show our fortunes."

"Survival depends on a Mystic's sight."

"A Mystic protects the Voss."

"She must know our enemy."

Something about their tandem speech left me feeling dizzy, mentally off-balance, disorientated. It was a distraction the likes of which left the mind bare and open, unable to dissemble. "Then we'll fight them," I answered, pinching the bridge of my nose (for all the good it did me). Their words conjured up images of Draahg and Baras.

Suddenly, the strange resonance stopped. When I looked up, I found only one Voss, dressed in the style of robes common to those working in the Shrine of Healing. "You think as they do," she declared. It didn't sound like a compliment.

The massive Gormak nearly killed me before I registered that there was a threat. I had a split-second of warning—a coiling in the Force that reminded me of how the vision on Tatooine coalesced—and just enough time to jump away before a massive round from the cannon-like weapon it held obliterated me.

The movement was slow however, as if something held me back, or gravity somehow decided to exert itself more forcibly. The Gormak seemed somehow oversized and overpowering. Some sliver of my mind not occupied with the fight decided that this was a punishment for having misunderstood the scenario: the trial parameters didn't like the answer 'we'll fight them.'

'She must know our enemy.'

There's something here. A trial like this? Combat is the shape of the test, not the core. This is, in many ways, all in my head—even the parts that aren't. The trial creates the shapes, but they pattern off things that already exist. It's why I perceived an Alderaanian Noble, Karr, and Her Lordship earlier.

I jumped back several meters and looked up at the Gormak, pointing with my lightsaber. " _You're_ not my enemy." The words rang in the room as if in a much larger space.

The thing froze where it was, but trembled as if the paralysis was only temporary. The Gormak isn't my enemy, but instinct screams that I have to supply a face or fail the test. Who _is_ my enemy? For a moment I thought 'Darth Baras' but although he's _an_ enemy, he's Her Lordship's more than mine.

Mine.

"There is no enemy," I announced as loudly as I could (for all the good it did, as the words came out conversationally). I deactivated my lightsaber, heart pounding. If I've misunderstood this… "All that remains is me."

The Gormak stopped trembling but remained poised.

"I'm my own greatest adversary. I always have been." It was true, I could almost taste the truth—something I probably wouldn't have admitted anywhere else.

The Gormak shrank to a more reasonable size.

"But I'm not afraid of myself. The part of me that holds back the whole… is as nothing compared to that whole."

The Gormak bowed its head, resolving into a mirror image of myself.

"A house at war with itself cannot stand." The words came of themselves, carrying a powerfully ritualistic feel. I liked the heaviness of them, the stateliness of them, the sense that they defined the reality around me. "There's no war here. Only I remain."

The mirror image bowed her head and was gone.

I blinked, finding myself exactly where I'd embarked upon this vision quest. Getting to my feet, I began to walk, but it was like being pulled by a string or moving along a rail. The tug led me to a room full of tablets inscribed with the Voss' written language. The air seemed to buzz, tension creeping along my skin like an electrical current.

I blinked… and realized the vision wasn't over. My body was still kneeling in that place for Mystics, while consciousness moved around elsewhere.

-J-

 _I was in an Imperial place, a ship or space station, lying on the ground. I hurt, from head to foot as if I'd been bludgeoned. It wasn't the same as when Draahg pounded the daylights out of us, but pain was pain in this case. For several moments, I lay on the floor, panting and exhausted, but the need to get up, to look around grew more and more urgent._

 _I pushed onto my elbows, eyes finding two wrecks that were once massive war droids. They sparked and fizzled, damage patterns indicating a lightsaber. As I pushed myself to my knees, I continued looking. Something was missing, something that should be there. From knees to feet. The added height brought into view that missing thing: puddles of red—hair and blood—around a black shape. A very still black shape. I staggered, stumbled, over to Her Lordship, dropping to my knees rather than taking one as I turned her head._

 _There was no pulse in her neck. I couldn't sense her through the Force… but not because she wasn't there, I realized. It was like trying to see without eyes._

 _A change in the light made me turn to look over my shoulder. Across the room stood a holoterminal. Projected by that terminal was Baras._

-J-

My eyes popped open, Baras' nondescript words echoing in my head. My heart should have been racing, but it wasn't. It simply thudded softly as it should have, considering all my exertions were in my head.

At some point, Her Lordship woke from her exhausted slumber and joined me. She knelt there, hands in her lap, looking more peaceful than any Sith should. The angles of her face were softened, the slightly too heavy jaw and pouty mouth making her look mildly sullen. The way her head bowed, however, drew attention to the long line of her neck.

Not for the first time, I wondered if she was really pretty or not.

I exhaled deeply, stilling the trembling in my fingers.

"You're back," Her Lordship observed, making me jump. She didn't open her eyes, didn't rearrange any of her features. In fact, for a moment I wondered if her remark hadn't been all in my head.

"Y-yes," I stammered. The vision of Her Lordship dead on the floor made my guts cramp. To see her lying there like a broken doll after having come so close to losing her on Quesh… it unnerved me in no small way. I had no idea what I'd do without her guidance. I'm just an apprentice. Yes, I have my work under Caliqu for the Dark Council, but…

"The future is always in motion," Her Lordship noted gently. When I looked over, I found her studying me somberly. "And it protects itself. Farsight is an unreliable discipline. Don't rely too much on what you saw, but don't disregard it as impossible, either."

"I saw you dead."

She gave a shrug. "Everyone dies… with the exception of the Emperor. You could say that it's the only true destiny: death, as it comes for us all." She spoke so unconcernedly that I began to feel mildly better. "What killed me, out of curiosity?"

"War droids. You killed them, but…" I shook my head. "They killed you right back."

"Hm. Then perhaps I need to train harder. That's an embarrassing end. Droids." Her lip curled as she shook her head, the cascade of her red hair swishing as she did so.

"Are you well enough to go, Master?" The fretful tone in my voice annoyed me, which was good since annoyance was better than being unnerved. "I'm tired of Voss visions."

Her mouth curved in a smile as she pushed herself to her feet. "Let's go, then. But I would recommend you take time to meditate on what exactly you saw. You'll possibly notice details you didn't notice before."

I nodded, unsure whether I wanted to bother. It was bad enough to see her dead on the floor like that once. Why subject myself to it again?

Because, a little voice whispered, you need to know. For your own sake, if not hers. You need to know if you can prevent it.

A shiver crept up and down my spine like an unwelcome caressing finger.


	46. Chapter 46

**Voss, Part VI**

"Seriously? 'Convince him to give the Bone?'" I asked frowningly, nose scrunching up in distaste.

"Yes, rather badly-worded, I thought," Her Lordship agreed.

I could make a comment about her, the Captain, and Madaga-Ru's strange phraseology, but I won't. She'd just turn it back, leaving me blushing and feeling out of sorts. She wouldn't even have to be raunchy in how she did it; I think raunch would be easier to deal with than her kind of elegant retorts.

Apparently, Madaga-Ru appeared to her after she woke up but before she joined me where I was undergoing the trial. We were to seek out a team of Voss commandos, one of whom had a Pendant of Bone which we needed to unlock the gates to the Dark Heart.

The Voss are fond of capital letters, it seems.

I hadn't missed that the further from Voss-Ka we got, the closer we came to the darkness in the Force that, with the balancing light, created that sinister heartbeat. Moreover, as we approached the Nightmare Lands, the location of which remained a vague idea, I began to feel uneasy. It was like something morbid and fretful rested somewhere nearby, brooding, disquieted… but asleep. _Lightly_ asleep.

Finally, I touched Her Lordship's arm. "Do you feel that? Like something big asleep, restlessly so?"

"I feel it," she agreed. "It's not subtle."

"…is it… _him_?"

"No, it's not the Emperor. But I can sense him if I try hard enough. This aberration is why the Hand had trouble locating him and had to give us such vague instructions. It's concealing him, and it's what's holding him here. He's waiting, though; he knows we're coming." She sounded dead-certain, but mildly puzzled.

"…um…"

"You needn't be cautious with me, Jaesa."

"…well…" I dropped my voice to a whisper. "…how could something on Voss hold the Emperor somewhere he doesn't want to be?" The Sith—well, most of them—refer to the Emperor almost like he was a demigod (if not more), apparently because he's proved himself to be far beyond the realm of strength and ability to which everyone else belongs. It's creepy to think there's something that can keep him where he doesn't choose to stay.

"An excellent question. However, from what I've pieced together about the Emperor—not just what we've learned recently—then it's more likely that the _Voice_ is trapped somehow, so the essence of the Emperor can't get away. I don't know enough to speculate any further. But I share your concern: whatever this is, it's very powerful… and not at all natural to my way of thinking."

"My lord? The vision I had at the Shrine of Healing. It troubles me."

"I take it this is your first real experience with seeing the future?" she asked, checking her pace to something more leisurely and conducive to an instructional conversation.

I nodded. "I've been around Jedi who saw the future. It always left them calm, comfortable, secure—annoyingly so."

"Everyone handles such things differently. Forewarned is forearmed, however. Simply by knowing about this possible future results in a strong possibility of changing it."

The Werner Uncertainty Principle… though where I learned that, I don't remember. The more accurately one measures an object's position, the less accurately one understands the subject's momentum—and vice versa. It's enough to give a person migraines.

"Directing the future by tugging on the present, as a dressmaker tugs out wrinkles in a mockup, has value. Baras exemplifies it. However, there are limits and different events require different manipulations or levels of change to affect. Don't let this upset you too much, Jaesa. And don't dwell on it to distraction. It really can drive you mad."

She didn't need to say 'and that's not a good thing.' She's the biggest control freak I ever saw, and makes the usual examples look comic by comparison.

"The only time I ever saw you have trouble with a droid was while we were hunting the War Trust. Those Siantide droids, remember?"

"And we destroyed them. You're certain you weren't seeing the past?"

"Yes, I'm _quite_ certain."

"Then you will have to be your own interpreter," she responded.

The words shook me. They were very Voss. "I hate it here," I grumbled.

"I, on the other hand, should like to take in some of the Voss-Ka local culture. A person should have at least one meal on any world she visits," Her Lordship mused. "I envy you the opportunity to take this trial for Mystics. Such things mark the one who undergoes them, and you never know how or if that will ever come in handy."

I hadn't thought about that. Still, I'd rather not come back to Voss if I don't have to.

Her holocom chirped. "Yes?" she asked, once she'd withdrawn the unit.

It was Pierce. " _Everything's fine, m'lord_ ," he announced before she could ask. Not that she looked ready to. He looked way too excited for there to be any bad news. " _Just got off with General Rakton. He's given us the green light. We're in a holding pattern while things finalize on his end. Thought you ought to know._ "

"Excellent. If he needs to speak with me, I'm afraid he will have to wait until I come out of the field."

" _Told him as much. Sith business keeps you hopping. He said he doesn't want to gum any of that up. If he needs to speak with you, he'll leave a message with me and I'm to pass it on when it's convenient. He does send his compliments, though._ "

Wise, on the whole. The part about not bothering Her Lordship, not about sending compliments.

"Very well. I appreciate the update, Lieutenant."

" _M'lord._ " Pierce nodded, then hung up.

"He really is like a little boy," she mused, putting the unit back into her hip bag. "So eager to share his good news."

I laughed out loud. I couldn't help it. The image of Pierce dressed in the fashion of young Alderaanian boys—with shorts, tall socks, and a pressed buttoned-up jacket—at his current dimensions was beyond hilarious.

 **Voss, Part VII**

"What now?" I asked as Her Lordship nodded to the Voss to whom we'd traded Gormak deaths for the Pendant of Bone which was supposed to get us into where we needed to be. Fighting Gormak wasn't difficult in general; they were resilient though, and preferred to attack at range. Her Lordship was good at ruining that preference, and could I close distance without being seen.

The commandos clearly can hold their own. Still, I'd say we were _much_ more effective, but that's just being a different class of fighter with a different skillset. Something Darth Serevin might consider: thinning Gormak numbers would impress the Voss. They lose fewer commandos, Sith might and effectiveness go on display. Jedi couldn't handle something like that.

"Now, we wait for Madaga-Ru to appear," she answered with a sigh. "I don't think it will take terribly long."

"While we wait, maybe you could answer something for me."

She looked over at me, eyebrows arched.

"Vette told us about your raid on Lord Grathan's compound."

"Did she, indeed?" There was no censure, no displeasure. Her Lordship tends to be that way: owning the things she's involved in. "And what did she tell you?"

"That Lady Grathan said something to… disgust… you?" I wasn't sure that was the word, disgust.

Her Lordship chuckled. "Oh, she did more than disgust me. You have to understand that both Cellvanta and her husband came from long lines of Force-users, many of them titled. Both were rich in their own rights and married, as many Sith do, for gain. I never bothered to find out what, exactly, that was. Mother was an old name but _Dahdee_ was new money. Mother came from a long line of non-Sensitives, whereas _Dahdee_ 's family is… sporadic… in producing Force sensitive children. Already, you can see why a snob like Cellvanta would harbor… ill will… towards my family."

I nodded. "I take it your family was richer. That's… rather crass, isn't it?"

"They are—my family being more wealthy and the Grathans being crass—two different items, of course. Cellvanta and Mother never got along, though neither would turn down a social engagement. You know how it is."

"I do." You don't invite just your friends alone to a lot of engagements. Sometimes you invite antagonists to spice up the party, or make a show that your event is worth attending in spite of any ill feeling between host and guest.

Or to have an event at all, depending on the host or hostess.

"Cellvanta's position was such that Korriban was the _only_ way for a Sith to train. Private tutoring was for the weak, since the dangers were far fewer—you can imagine the whole slew of arguments she liked to use."

I nodded again.

"As it turns out, she had a son—a son not only privately tutored, but kept away from Korriban on purpose for his own _safety_ ," she ended on a sneer. "But that wasn't what upset me. That was what disgusted me."

"What was it that upset you?"

"Cellvanta was Sith. Yet she asked what she and her son had done to _deserve_ death. _Deserve_ it," Her Lordship spat, eyes flashing. "As if Sith ever care about such a thing as who deserves what, except when it comes to meting out punishment or seeking revenge. She went to Korriban—who cares whether an acolyte _deserves_ to die? She was a working Sith, once; since when can an apprentice afford to care whether her victims _deserve_ death when her master says 'kill them'? And she married a powerful Sith lord, then had the gall to wonder why she and her son _deserved_ death. For her to fail in understanding collateral damage just goes to show what a flawed, substandard piece of work she really was. I thought her ignorant, but I never expected the depths of ignorance she displayed that day."

"And the son?"

Her Lordship snorted, an unladylike sound as her mouth twisted. "That brat was simply an idiot. Too stupid and too unprincipled to obey when his mother told him to do something. He might have been strong in the Force but he was poorly trained. Being Sith is kill or be killed. I suppose I was simply… disappointed… with the whole experience. I don't take disappointment well."

I thought I could sort of see where she was coming from. Her father didn't shelter her. I'd be surprised if she hadn't killed a person by the age of fourteen. He took her into the jungles of Dromund Kaas to sharpen her claws on the predators there, to give her training an edge, demonstration of the applicability of her skills. And if she didn't sharpen her claws on the creatures, they'd happily tear in to her with theirs. She understood how one Sith might act against her or her mother to get to Lord Augustine. Or, in her case, her godfather to get to her.

Somehow… I don't think it was failure to protect Moff Thorne. I think he simply refused to be cosseted and protected because one of his friends wore floppy black robes on working days. Proud and brave, his position was enough to protect him for the most part.

And then it wasn't.

I found myself sharing her distaste. How was it possible the woman was so naïve? I did feel badly for the boy; the whole scenario was wasteful. Both his mother's actions, and the necessity that drove Her Lordship to strike him down. "Apparently she learned nothing on Korriban. Or later in life."

"Or she let herself forget it all. I don't know which is worse." Her Lordship stopped walking, holding up a hand.

A split second later, Madaga-Ru's apparition appeared. In the broad daylight he was little more than a shimmer, little spaces of definite feature blurred by light. "You now possess the Blessing of Oneness and the Pendant of Bone," he observed.

"Yes." She held up the pendant, the leather thong it hung on twisted through her fingers. Yellowed from age, it depicted a geometric raised design. It didn't look like anything particularly special—certainly not worth the number of Gormak we killed to obtain it.

"Good. I have guided you. Now, I request your help." To my surprise, he bowed politely after the Voss fashion.

"Go on," Her Lordship answered guardedly.

"I need to live in your skin. Seize control of you. You will neither be changed nor will you feel any discomfort."

I took a half step back, ready to jump into action.

Madaga-Ru and Her Lordship both ignored the motion. It couldn't be clearer that she didn't like this proposal at all. However, she didn't tell Madaga-Ru to jump into a fire, either. "And what, exactly, would that achieve?" she finally asked.

"You cannot know. It will remain a mystery until it no longer is."

"I don't see much incentive. You're asking a lot."

"Everything on Voss is paid for," Madaga-Ru answered with a shrug, as if she ought to have known this. "You traded me a secret for my help. I will do the same. It will only take a few moments, and you will feel no pain."

Her Lordship looked him up and down. "You're asking a lot; that's not a request most Sith would even consider. Sweeten the pot: contribute something to my apprentice's education as well. Then… I shall agree."

"My lord!" I gaped at her. _Agree_? That's such a horrible idea!

"This is Voss, Jaesa. Their rules are very structured. Also note that consent apparently must be obtained. Very unlike the Sith. It's a good risk, as I did not complete the trials of the Mystics as you did."

I subsided, scowling at Madaga-Ru. "If you hurt her, I'll find you and _end_ you."

Again, my contribution to the encounter was ignored.

Madaga-Ru studied me for several long moments. "Do not believe in your master's death unless you have seen the corpse. And even then, verify with more than just your eyes."

I glanced at Her Lordship, a deep, dark unease flaring in my guts. As much as I wanted to demand clarification, I knew better. I'm getting so sick of hearing about the future. Stupid Mystics on this ridiculous planet… the sooner we leave, the happier I'll be.

"Go ahead," Her Lordship nodded.

There must be some understanding here, since she didn't ask him for his secret before letting him do… that. Or maybe it was a 'half price up front' thing. Or maybe she felt something, the currents of ritual, that I didn't.

Madaga-Ru approached Her Lordship, the strange luminosity of his apparition did not grace her skin with golden light, but the light caught and reflected in her eyes. Suddenly he was gone, though the light in Her Lordship's eyes remained. Her Lordship stood still, as if frozen, or as if part of a still-capture.

Then she took a short breath, Madaga-Ru abruptly standing behind her, his back to hers.

"I will appear to you again," Madaga-Ru said, sounding uneasy, or as though he had a lot to process.

"I'll be expecting you," Her Lordship answered simply.

"Everything gained is paid for," came Madaga-Ru's assurance. Then he was gone.

"Are you alright?" I demanded, more sharply than I meant to.

"Quite," Her Lordship answered with consideration. "Come. Let's embark on the last leg of the journey."

"Do you know where we're going? Apart from the painfully obvious, I mean. The Nightmare Lands… that sounds like a lot of ground to cover, especially with just two of us."

"I can sense the Emperor. It's enough to go on." But she didn't look as though she relished entering the Nightmare Lands. It didn't matter in the end: she had instructions and she would follow them, even if she didn't like where they took her.

That was being Sith, in many ways, in a nutshell.

 **Voss, Part VIII**

The Nightmare Lands were well-named, almost too literally named. The lighting was inconsistent, ranging from murky twilight to the edge of darkness. The vegetation and animals were tortured near-parodies of such things elsewhere. The air carried sounds without sources—most of them distressed or pained.

More than the sounds, the creepy landscape, flora and fauna, was how the Force twisted and roiled, playing tricks on the senses of anyone dumb enough to come here while wreaking havoc on those of us who understood the source of the tricks. I couldn't decide if it was meant to keep people away… or keep idiots who came from ever leaving. I couldn't imagine going to sleep here, even for a nap. I don't think I'd ever wake up, the wrongness of the place would prey on the weakness sleep imparted to the mind.

In some ways, it reminded me vaguely of the Dark Temple: the place would swallow you alive if you gave the least indication of weakness.

There was something… else. I could sense the Emperor as we got closer, a big, ugly, evil blot—insanely powerful but caged. But there another big, ugly and evil, something… _else_ … something not the Emperor present as well.

It watched.

It waited.

It brooded.

And it knew why we were here.

I couldn't imagine any meeting with that thing going well. There would be a fight, a rough one.

The path we took through the Nightmare Lands rambled, seemed to double back on itself. The longer we stayed, the more I heard things that probably weren't there, the more dark shadows or strange lights that caught in my peripheral vision but weren't there when I looked. The air was still and close, stifling, thickening as we continued along. Closing my eyes didn't help; the tricks of sound were worse when I couldn't verify they were sound without source.

I wanted to scream, but felt sure that would be one of the stupidest things I could do.

"I don't like it here," I finally announced after what seemed hours of stomping around.

"Nor do I. This isn't simply the presence of the Dark Side. It's… corruption. Unnatural," she answered quietly. " _There_." She turned sharply and set off perpendicular to the way we'd been going. She rounded a large tree to a cliff wall we'd passed probably a million times…

…but there was a door in the wall, this time.

She touched it, then nodded at me to do so as well.

My stomach turned. The Emperor and that other thing were both back there, alright. A strange, cloying smell, like rotting things, began to permeate the air. With the air as hot and stifling as it was, the added odor was almost enough to make one pass out. It seemed to snatch away the little oxygen available.

Her Lordship retrieved the Pendant of Bone, feeling at the door until she located a divot into which she placed the pendant. It locked in, and the door swung open when she pushed on it. The air—so dry compared to what we'd been suffering outside—that came whooshing out smelled like death, dust, and… something old. The darkness beyond the door seemed almost solid.

"I will not be frightened by your tricks—whatever you are," Her Lordship snapped out, holding the door and freeing the Pendant of Bone, which she put back in her hip bag.

The air grew closer, as if the thing she addressed, the corruption we both sensed, had begun creeping up on us, loomed up behind us ready to pounce, like a cat on two unwary mice. I glanced over my shoulder, satisfying myself that there was nothing to be seen.

Her Lordship sniffed, then stepped across the threshold.

"Defiler."

The word slithered over my skin like so many snakes, writhing like worms in my boots.

" _Trespasser_."

The air seemed full of dust, clogging my breaths and drying out my skin.

"Sel-Makor warns…"

"You should know I consider those who refer to themselves in third person to be hacks. It's annoying," Her Lordship quipped as she began to walk slowly, confidently, into the darkness. I hurried after her, certain that if the darkness enveloped her from my sight I would never find her again and be stuck out here all on my own.

"Retreat. _Relent_ ," the rasping voice whispered. It was a strange kind of whisper. The actual sound was so quiet, and yet to my senses each word had a crushing weight, as if enough speech could squeeze the life out of me.

This thing… it's old. It's powerful. It's _definitely_ not natural.

Her Lordship didn't check her pace by so much as a fraction.

"Death awaits," the thing, Sel-Makor, hissed.

I swear I could feel its fetid breath on the back of my neck, sense long, clawed fingers reaching sneakily towards my unguarded back.

"I don't scare easily," came Her Lordship's dispassionate remark. The only sign that she felt some kind of distress was the sheen of sweat on her skin. It was much cooler inside than out in the Nightmare Lands, and dryer, too.

"Then _die_ easily."

The room in which we stood trembled.

Somehow… I actually felt better, more comfortable, with the idea that there was something I could fight. All the mind tricks Sel-Makor was playing were things I couldn't contend against, couldn't do anything about. An enemy? I can do something with one of those.

 **Voss, Part IX**

Sel-Makor (whatever it was, I'm not sure even her Lordship was quite certain what it was or about its origin) didn't make it easy for us, seeming to spawn creatures to throw at us every few meters. It clearly intended to keep the Emperor locked up forever. I don't know how it could keep the Voice alive beyond a natural lifespan… but maybe that was part of the Emperor making use of a vessel: it was immortal unless killed because he was properly immortal.

Unease squirmed in my guts at the idea that something could confine the Sith Emperor if he didn't wish to be confined.

The Sith Emperor is… well, the best I could come up with was the immortal emperor of the Sith. Her Lordship was quite certain that the Emperor was over a thousand years old, that he'd been experimenting with immortality at that time and apparently succeeded in learning the secret. She didn't seem curious how, except as a passive scholastic thing.

Anyway, she was quite certain he wasn't actually a line of emperors backstabbing one another after the Sith fashion—that theory probably stemmed from differing Voices over the centuries. He was, and had always been, the Emperor. Sometimes silent, sometimes withdrawn from his Empire—hence the need for the Dark Council—and usually reclusive, his presence hung over the Empire like braze on an industrial world, permeating every life with the knowledge of his sure superiority.

In fact, it almost seemed a comforting thing that _something_ in the Empire didn't change, was solid and fixed. The Empire possessed its own kind of chaos; the Emperor's existence kept it all in perspective.

Fear and reverence comingled whenever he was mentioned. Pierce's voice—Pierce being the most outspoken person I knew—would carry a little unease, as if the Emperor might hear him.

Vette, notoriously irreverent, would drop her voice nervously when the subject came up.

The Captain avoided invoking the Emperor if he could help it, as if such consideration was above his pay grade—a handy excuse to have.

Even Her Lordship's manner seemed extra polished when the Emperor was invoked; I had the impression that even if she had criticisms she would keep them mild or (more likely) to herself. Especially now that she was a direct servant of his will.

The Voice—or the Emperor, I didn't see much point of differentiating—stood in a large chamber of decidedly Voss architecture… but Voss in the style of the Shrine of Healing, both of which struck me as much older than Voss-Ka. I couldn't say why.

He waited at the far end of the room, posture perfectly straight, an air of patience filling the space as he watched us enter.

Her Lordship bowed politely from the door, submissive without being self-abasing.

I followed her example, paying a deeper reverence. His presence was smothering, like Master Wyellett's, only malevolent. A perfect contrast. All things considered, Master Wyellett might have been the stronger of the two.

Her Lordship advanced until she was about ten feet back, then took a knee, laying her lightsabers ceremoniously on the ground before her. She could get to them if trouble happened, but the demonstration of inoffensive weapons had a certain formality, heaviness of pageantry that probably was why she didn't shake the way I did. The forms allowed her to maintain composure and her care in performing each action lent her a certain grace beyond what she usually exhibited.

I, on the other hand, actually fumbled setting my lightsaber down and winced; the sound seemed overly loud. I shut my eyes, not daring to look up.

Not that the Emperor paid any attention to me, and for once I wasn't sorry to be ignored, or treated like the accessory of a superior. I was amazed Her Lordship didn't shake or tremble. The sheen of sweat on her skin might just have been exercise or distress over Sel-Makor… but if it wasn't then it was the only evidence of her being unnerved by being in the presence of the Sith Emperor.

The Emperor, whatever reverence he's treated with, is always far away. Always, until now.

The Force pulled around the Emperor, bound but straining to get loose like… like the excess flesh of an overweight woman confined within in a whale-boned corset. The power so tightly contained in his person could have flattened both of us if released.

Voss are tall, but the way he carried himself made him seem unnaturally tall even for a Voss. It lent him a regal quality appropriate to a ruler… but it also made him forbidding, unapproachable.

"And here you are," the Emperor noted, his tone low, almost indulgent, as if she were a favored niece come to visit. "I've been waiting for you, my Wrath."

Her Lordship said nothing, merely remained where she was. Still. Waiting. Listening. Prepared to receive his commands and execute them.

"Rise."

Her Lordship did so, leaving her lightsabers where they were. Her head remained submissively bowed, posture perfect hands open and held slightly away from her sides to indicate that she was unarmed… and that any hand gesture to a facilitate use of the Force would be painfully obvious.

The Emperor paced around her twice, one clockwise, once counter clockwise, studying her carefully as if fixing in his mind a person rather than some kind of vision or nebulous construct of ability. "The Hand speaks well of your work, my Wrath."

"Thank you, my master," she answered in a demure murmur. It was a strange balance of utter submission but without compromising in one aspect her own dignity.

The Emperor chuckled, mouth twisting into a wry smile as his bright eyes narrowed. "But I have not called you here to compliment your work. Baras was unwise not to kill you himself."

"An oversight I intend him to pay for, should any of him survive the punishment you assign," Her Lordship answered.

"Very well. Now, you are here to undo Baras' work. This body could be bound to this place, as Baras was somehow aware."

I wouldn't want to be part of the Emperor's intelligence corps when he gets out of here. Letting something like that slip? Not good for business. He might clean house just in case it was treachery instead of an actual mistake or oversight.

Suddenly, it hit me like a wall, just how audacious Baras really was—and how sure of himself he had to be. He dared to move against _the Sith Emperor_ , managed to _confine_ the Emperor in such a way that a special agent was required to come and rescue him—and he'd tried and failed to kill the best candidate for being that special agent not once, but _twice_.

Normally, Her Lordship might point out that Baras' intel networks were especially good, but she spared the Emperor her assessments and peripheral comments on this point.

"Fortunately, Sel-Makor's dark secrets here are valuable, and I have had time to consider them."

The air around us seemed to thicken, resulting in a rather ugly smile on the Emperor's face, as if he knew Sel-Makor was not only listening, but was disturbed by the comment.

"…I… if may, my master…?" Her Lordship asked, unease finally evidenced in her voice. That she actually hitched when speaking said a great deal. I hadn't seen her wrong-footed since Master Wyellett, and that was the _only_ other time she ever seemed discomposed.

The Emperor directed an interrogative look at her.

"What _is_ Sel-Makor? I've never experienced its like."

"Sel-Makor is… an aberration," the Emperor answered slowly. "Resultant of mistakes and ignorant manipulations."

The thickened air took on a character of palpable menace.

"Oh yes," the Emperor breathed, more to the silent Sel-Makor than to Her Lordship. "You do not fool me, Creature. I know you, now. And it is enough. I shall return for what I require at a later date." He made it sound like he was dropping off his laundry at a cleaning service.

A faint tremor ran through the room, like a growl below the range of human hearing. Wow. The Emperor had a way of getting under people's skin, if he could provoke the smug Sel-Makor into impotent snarling and growling.

"Now, as for your task, my Wrath. I am released only when this body dies. Suicide is currently impossible."

I swallowed hard. The Force jerked and pulsed, evidencing an anger his tone did not. Apparently, like patience, the best Sith hide their rages and angers, leaving only a smooth composure that leaves an observer wondering what goes on beneath the surface.

Like the ocean: fast or strange currents move beneath the surface, currents which don't show.

Not that I intended to look beneath the surface. That would be unpardonable. I also suspect I'd burn my eyes out or something equally horrible. Part of me wondered if using my gift might even end up destroying that gift utterly, leaving me broken and ruined for my impertinence.

"Therefore, you shall perform the service required of you and release me."

I looked up, mouth dropping open.

I could only see the back of Her Lordship's head, so her expression was unreadable, but I felt the pulse of hesitation through our bond. The idea of raising a hand against her Emperor had been so unexpected that her unreadable façade ended. She took a deep, steadying breath, forcing her mind to accept that these were her orders, issued verbally, face-to-face. "…as you command, my master."

The Emperor reached down to his belt and unclipped the lightsaber at his hip, holding it out to her. "Consider it a sign of my favor. And should you use it against Darth Baras… so much the better. An apparent disciple of the old ways ought to have the option."

The first thing I noticed was he said _apparently_ , meaning he was aware that the old forms, the traditional trappings of being Sith were only skin deep with her. She believed in an evolving definition of what it meant to be Sith, whatever one might expect just by looking at her manner.

The other thing was that Her Lordship's composure flickered again. In one simple gesture, the Emperor had torn away everything but what actually existed and left it open for display. It was there, the desire to protest her unworthiness of such a gift—the Emperor's own blade—to offer to return the weapon to Dromund Kaas or Korriban, or wherever he would prefer his own tool to wait for the time it could return to his hand. There was unease at such a gesture, questioning of motive and coming up with no sufficient answer.

In short, I'd never seen Her Lordship so uncertain and wrong-footed. This is a woman who could walk down the streets of Dromund Kaas in nothing but her hair and conduct herself as if she were fully clothed in the latest—or even the cutting, bleeding edge of—fashion. To see her reduced to something more fallible, more human, than she usually presented herself as being—than Master Wyellett had managed—was unnerving in the worst possible way.

Her Lordship bowed deeply, with a hastiness of gesture as if to deprive the Emperor of seeing the unguarded emotions crossing her features. She accepted the lightsaber reverently, careful not to touch his fingers as she did so…

He was dead on the floor a split second later, just as Sel-Makor screamed—or started to scream—that he wouldn't be deprived of his prize. In the instant before he screamed and Her Lordship rammed the weapon into the Emperor's vessel, I caught a faint shift in the air around the Emperor. It didn't strike me as being something he did, so I could only assume Sel-Makor expected her to hesitate to strike down her master and meant to intervene somehow.

Apparently the Emperor did not anticipate any hesitation once she accepted her orders or had communicated something to her without words. Maybe she figured she didn't need anything more explicit than she'd already been given. She's of a decisive personality, and the Emperor made his wishes known. Not a lot of room for interpretation.

"You were saying?" Her Lordship asked sardonically, her mask snapping back into place like a doctor snapping a fresh glove.

A dry slither in the air, an oscillation in the Force told me that while the Emperor's host was dead—lightsaber thrust to the chest, at an angle to destroy the heart and one or both of the lungs in one movement—he hadn't moved on just yet. I had the impression he wanted to linger, to see her work in person.

Rage built in the air as I grabbed my lightsaber, knuckles scraping the floor as I did so. Her Lordship raised a hand, her main hand lightsaber with it's so perfectly calibrated on/off button, flying into her waiting grasp, the Emperor's blade quiescent in the other. One could tell by the way she held it that she was getting a feel for the weight.

A lightsaber's weight is, as any fool can see, all in the hilt. The hilt of a personal weapon is always designed with the user in mind—excluding hand-me-down weapons or battle trophies. The hilt of the Emperor's blade was chunky, clearly meant for a man's use. It wasn't something comfortable for her main-hand, and would render her favorite tricks—the underhanded use of Trakata—useless. The on/off toggle would be calibrated for someone else, someone who didn't necessarily favor her style of combat. For all she knew, it was sticky from disuse, or needed a harder pressure on one side of the button than the other, resultant of an uneven application of pressure over decades—centuries?—of use.

An unfamiliar weapon, an unfamiliar specialty or specialized weapon, could be deadly to the person using it.

"Deprive you of your tools and you're not that impressive," Her Lordship observed, turning on the spot. "I wonder how much resistance you can conjure to stop me from just walking out of here. Let's see, shall we?" Her Lordship asked, and walked away from the corpse of the Voss the Emperor had only just left.

Abruptly, the oscillation in the Force, the distortion I understood as being the Emperor's lingering essence, disappeared.

 **Voss, Part X**

Her Lordship leaned heavily on the nearest tree, once we got out of Sel-Makor's lair. The entity put up some resistance, but it seemed to me to be somewhat less than that which we met on our way in. Whether this resulted from limitations on Sel-Makor's power, a waning of said power without the Emperor's presence to fuel it, or because it was a token show of force since she'd done what she came to do in spite of its best efforts to stop her, I wasn't sure.

"Are you unwell, my lord?" I asked nervously, hovering beside her as she took a long drink from her hydration pack.

She took several very deep breaths. "I just killed the Voice of the Emperor," she answered flatly in a tone that suggested 'how do you think I feel?'

"Well… it _was_ on his orders…" I offered lamely.

"It's simply the principle of the thing, Jaesa. I'll get over it. I shall do so much quicker if we are somewhere other than _here_ ," she indicated the Nightmare Lands. "I can't wait to get off this wretched planet." To my surprise, in an uncharacteristic show of temper, she kicked the tree she'd been leaning against then peevishly clipped the Emperor's lightsaber to her belt beside the one she carries in her off hand and fished out abepp, nibbling on it morosely.

"Are you really going to use _that_ to kill Baras?" For something to do, I fished out a bepp as well. The act of chewing made me aware how shaky I was now that there was nothing immediate to fight.

"I honestly don't think the Emperor cares one way or the other," Her Lordship answered. "There's mystique attached to the weapon, symbolism in using it to strike down the Emperor's foe. The Wrath is more than the sum of combat prowess and survivability. The Dark Council will be required to recognize me as what I claim to be. Set dressings are very necessary to transform me from Baras' disgraced brute enforcer to one in direct service to the Emperor."

I could see it: the old forms, the traditional expressions Her Lordship observes day-to-day are evidence enough. They give her presence, add a sense of the mystical for non-Sensitives and Force sensitives alike.

The Wrath was a one-of-a-kind entity. It was necessary within Sith society to elevate that person in the minds of those who saw her into something more symbolic, something more than just a fighter or just another Sith. Especially in her case, because she would be proclaiming herself a personal servant of the Emperor even as Baras claimed to be the Emperor's Voice. Every bit of set dressing—so I chose to call it—that could add to her presentation was requisite.

I glanced at the red sleeveless robe she'd begun wearing over her working clothes with its glinting copper embroidery so reminiscent of flames. It was a distinctive garment, something people would remember. She had to become an icon, and image was part of that. She had a good start, in my opinion.

I'd only seen her conscious and in an uncontrolled rage once. I'd only seen her truly uncontrolled, all restraint stripped away once. The rest of the time, she presented herself with all the skill of a theater performer who was so used to a role that it was second nature, not something they needed to think about anymore. I've seen her rally and inspire; I've seen her crush and demoralize; I've seen her pass through a place without actually doing anything but leaving a mark in the minds of those who saw her.

Whatever Her Lordship thinks or feels, whatever her motivations, those are hers alone. Others only see what she lets them see…

…those episodes with the Emperor and Master Wyellett excluded.

"So, what did you think?" Her Lordship asked once she'd finished her bepp and seemed to have perked up a bit.

"I think I understand why the Emperor is treated so reverently, even when he's… absent," I answered guardedly. Then I grimaced, mumbling, "I dropped my lightsaber and scuffed my knuckles."

"If you weren't nervous, you had no sense at all. Fortunately, you're a sensible girl to begin with and I'd like to think your training has enhanced that trait."

"All the same, I'd rather wait outside the room the next time you have to speak with him."

Her Lordship chuckled at this, a rueful sound. She didn't come out and say it, but I had the impression she'd rather deal with the Hand than with the Emperor himself. Maybe that was why Servant Two was so woozy—overexposure to the Emperor.

I stopped walking just as the boundary edge of the Nightmare Lands came into view. It was weird to see such a conspicuous divide between the tortured awfulness of the Nightmare Lands and the bright tangerine orange evening light of untainted Voss. I never expected to see a corruption that had little to do with the Dark Side. The place was simply corrupted; the Force, regardless of sides, reflected this. It distorted reality and I expected a headache once we were out of here.

For once, the over-saturated light wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it seemed to warm my skin, reassure my frayed nerves.

Her Lordship checked her pace as well, turning around.

Madaga-Ru's apparition stood behind us. "I have come to pay for what I took," he announced.

"Have you been _following_ us?" I demanded, unable to keep the words back or moderate the snappish tone.

"I have observed," came the imperturbable answer before the hermit turned his attention back to Her Lordship. "I offer knowledge and a warning."

"Proceed," Her Lordship declared, sinking her weight into one hip before crossing her arms. Despite the casual stance, I thought I caught undercurrents of real, genuine interest and curiosity.

"The Dark Heart is Sel-Makor's prison. I exist to prevent his escape."

Her Lordship's eyebrows arched. "Then the Madaga-Ru we met in person… a construct?"

"That is immaterial."

I shifted uneasily. Voss is weird. Weird and messed up. Let's go somewhere else. Even _Hoth_ is nice this time of year.

"Through you, I now know how to banish Sel-Makor. Forever."

"It can't come too soon. That _thing_ is disgustingly unnatural." And this kind of judgment from a Sith.

This came as a surprise, since the Emperor wanted it. Then again, Her Lordship has opinions even if she doesn't always air them… and it wasn't as though Madaga-Ru was asking _her_ to deal with Sel-Makor.

"Now, Voss demands payment. Here is the secret you were promised: one of your own plots to betray you."

Her Lordship's mouth thinned until it blanched. "Which?" she asked coldly.

Madaga-Ru shrugged. "The vision ends. You must be your own interpreter." The hermit—or whatever he was—bowed. "Voss bids you farewell."

With that, he was gone.

Her Lordship huffed, nostrils flaring. "I thoroughly share your opinion, Jaesa. Leave the future to these ridiculous Mystics. 'Any path followed precisely to its end leads precisely nowhere*,'" she spat waspishly. I recognized the quote as belonging to one of the books she'd suggested I read.

I had to almost jog to keep up with her. "My lord… I… the vision I received earlier…"

Her Lordship's jaw tightened, but she didn't tell me to keep it to myself.

"I saw you in… an Imperial place. A ship or station—it didn't have any windows—"

Her Lordship sighed, then slowed down. "What perspective did you see this from?"

"I don't… I don't know." Thinking back on it, I began biting my lip. "I had to pick myself up off the floor. I was in pain. Come to think of it… I might have been taller than I really am." That's… weird.

"It's not uncommon to assume someone else's position in a vision. Nor is it uncommon to be a disembodied observer. You'll notice how it would be useful to know whose eyes were watching," Her Lordship mused.

"My lord, this could have something to do with Madaga-Ru's warning."

"I'm aware that you think so." Her Lordship still sounded patient. She was, after all, aware that this was my first foray into seeing the future—and dealing with the experience—so I'd be understandably shaken up and need to talk it over.

"I don't _think_ , I _know_. Before I came back to myself, Baras appeared via holo. He wanted an update."

Her Lordship considered. "It wasn't the _Blight_?"

"No, the space was much bigger. Smaller than a hangar. A control room, maybe? There was no one there but you and… me-slash-whoever's-perspective-this-was." I shivered inwardly, remembering the flaccid body, blood and red hair and darkness…

I checked her pulse, but didn't actually watch myself do so.

"All I know was that it couldn't have been Broonmark in my vision. I checked your pulse—there wasn't one. Broonmark wouldn't have thought of that." And the hand had been humanoid in shape, or I'd have noticed some strangeness. "Ugh!" I picked up a stone and threw it. "I don't, I don't _like_ this. How do people who use this as a regular thing not go crazy?!"

"Many do, or approach it," Her Lordship answered soothingly. "Jaesa, I do thank you for sharing this with me. Please bear in mind, however, that I am Sith—there are a great many people who would like to kill me. Baras is not unique in this, he's simply the most highly placed enemy I know about."

'I know about.' That's _not_ reassuring.

Her holocom chirped. "Ah, a sight for sore eyes," she smiled as the Captain's figure appeared over the link.

" _You've received a package I thought you might wish to be apprised of,_ " the Captain declared.

"I do love presents. What is it?"

"… _a head in a box, my lord._ "

I let out a whoop of laughter at his tone, a mix of puzzlement and distaste. It was hard to tell whether it was the head that bothered him or the box it came in.

" _One Lord Khellin sends his humble respects and requested me to inform you he is ready to move at your word._ "

"Is he here?"

" _No, my lord. The courier with the box connected him via holo. He regretted not catching you at home, but left his report with me._ "

"Are you squeamish, Quinn?" Her Lordship asked, her mouth twisting into a wicked smirk.

The Captain, and only because her teasing hinted we weren't in a place to be observed, sighed almost dramatically, gave Her Lordship _a look,_ then produced a box—a very pretty, ornamental one, like a hat box—lifting from it a human head, face devastated by the Dark Side, for her inspection. He might as well have been handling a stage prop for all the 'squeamishness' he exhibited.

The expression on the head-in-a-box was that of a man who didn't realize he'd been killed. He never saw it coming, not until he felt the slide of whatever weapon did the deed.

"Ugly old bastard, wasn't he?" I asked thoughtfully.

"Quite. I never understood how Cellvanta stomached his society, let alone came to bear his child. Ah well—not all Sith can be as fortunate as I am." Predictably, she gave the Captain a burning look that conveyed her opinion of her own good fortune: her man is one she can desire _and_ respect, someone who can stand toe-to-toe with her when pushed and push _back_ when situation warrants.

" _What shall I do with the head, my lord?_ " the Captain asked imperturbably (though I thought I heard Vette gagging comically in the background).

"We'll forward it to Baras, naturally. I'm sure Darth Serevin can manage posting it for me."

I knew it: bouquet of heads by the time they meet face-to-face.

" _If you're out in the wilderlands, my lord, and that eager to depart, we can bring the ship to you. It would be faster, I'm certain._ "

"That would be _marvelous_."

" _I'm on it,_ " the Captain declared briskly. " _Locking onto your coordinates now. I'll see you shortly, my lord._ " With that, the Captain disconnected the call.

"My lord…" I began nervously. "Don't you think—"

" _Don't_ ," she said so darkly and with so much force that I knew better than to do anything other than bow my head respectfully. There was a savage edge in her tone that told me plainly she wasn't holding him above suspicion… and it hurt her to do it. "Malavai is mine," she finished in a more moderated tone.

To be fair, she probably suspected everyone at this point. Even me. The thought of such mistrust, however classically Sith and more habit than anything else, made my throat constrict. I'd never hurt her. _Never_.

But no one can deny that of all of us, the Captain is the one most _able_ to hurt her.

' _Malavai is mine._ '

Sith are often possessive in their speech. I'd come to the conclusion it was partly a shield—to speak of someone as if they were a belonging rather than someone important—partly a habit formed by being among the elite in the Empire, and partly to ensure other Sith knew who (and what) belonged to whom. In this case though, it didn't sound like ownership; she sounded like she was referencing her own hand, or an eye.

She called him by his given name, which she never does in the field or even on ship. It's use is usually strictly reserved for private time… and on Hoth, after she worked Draahg over.

Stars, let's hope he agrees with her. Agrees, and follows through.

-J-

Author's Note:

*It's actually the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. However, Heisenberg's first name is Werner, which is why it appears here, since Heisenberg never existed in Star Wars but someone like him probably did.

*Dune, Frank Herbert


	47. Chapter 47

**On Sad Times**

Vette and I sat in a tea shop—of which there were many—in Voss-Ka, regarding the oddly blue tea. At another table Her Lordship and the Captain sat, speaking earnestly.

The door opened and one of the Voss—Family of Ton—saw the new customer. His face brightened as he hurriedly finished what he was doing and strode over to meet her. "Ensign Temple, it is good to see you once again."

The woman, petite, dark-skinned with a delicate sort of fine-ness to her, regarded the Voss with big eyes. Her expression flickered unhappily.

"Is Dana-Ton well? Will she be joining us soon?" the Voss pressed hopefully.

The ensign gulped, then motioned him to follow her to the back of the room. If I strained my ears, I could just hear.

"I'm so sorry, Phi-Ton… Dana was… killed," the Ensign managed. "She-she recorded this for you. In case anything happened."

I frowned. Although she sounded sad, as if this was something she really didn't want to do, undercurrents around her—

It took effort not to turn around. The Force sort of pulled and tugged about her, limning her words, directing the Voss to take in and accept. She was weak, not Sith material, but it was a handy thing she did.

' _To my dearest husband_.'

This time it took all my effort not to turn around. I recognized Lt. Claire's voice. I didn't realize the Voss married outside their own kind.

' _If you're hearing this, it means I've died. I'm so sorry._ '

The Voss gave a soft gasp, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

' _I did look forward to returning to Voss, and to you. You opened my eyes to the idea that someone like me could love and be loved. I looked forward to learning whether that was true, and to the peace and quiet of home and family. Please don't cling to my memory; I want you to be content. Should you find another, should that time come, forget me. Become Voss with her. It would give me peace to know you're not alone and sad. I love you, husband. I'm sorry we didn't have more time. Your loving wife, Dana-Ton._ '

I bit my lip as the Voss broke into shocked sobs. She married a Voss? That's… strange.

"I'm so sorry," the ensign offered.

"How-how did it happen?" Phi-Ton demanded.

"She was deployed to Corellia. The fighting… it's really bad there. There was an explosion. She didn't get out in time." The ensign's voice broke.

"I… see," Phi-Ton answered softly, just above a whisper.

The Voss hastily excused himself, and the ensign left the tea shop, shoulders slouched… but her aura remained free of the pain her voice expressed.

"Sad stuff," Vette sighed, stirring her tea (now a granulated slush, as she'd mindlessly added sugar to it during this interchange).

"These are, indeed, sad times," I agreed.

 **The Wait**

I poked at my dinner, half attending the conversation—more of a rehashed argument—between the Captain and Pierce.

"Corellia is simply too unstable," the Captain responded reasonably. "Even if you take it, you'll never be able to hold it. The Bastion is one big piece of contested ground. We might as well save the resources for something less…" He frowned, looking for the right word.

"That's the _point_ ," Pierce growled. "Who cares if you fortify some district? No one sees it. No one cares."

"The ground troops would argue with you there," the Captain answered cuttingly.

Unfortunately, Pierce has a hide like a bantha. "The Bastion's symbolic. Her Lordship gets it. It's why she okayed the project. She trusts us to get it done and done right." He looked over to Her Lordship, appealing for backup.

Her Lordship, idly twirling the wine in her glass, didn't respond. She'd been quiet since we left Voss. The number of times she kept glancing at the holoterminal was the only evidence of anxiety. There was a Darth on Corellia, a hands-on member of the Dark Council—well, there were several, but only one really mattered as far as her mission as concerned. We'd known this for a while. Baras wanted him dead, so naturally those of the Emperor's party wanted him kept alive.

"Her Lordship clearly believes you capable of taking it. But holding it is something else—particularly since you have regular duties in her service and thus are unable to babysit the place," the Captain answered.

"I'm not worried. Got the right crew and no one to trip over." Pierce cast the Captain a significant look. He has to respect the rank insignias on the Captain's uniform, but he doesn't respect the man himself. Then again, Her Lordship takes me into the field, not the Captain. Pierce has never seen the Captain's field work—which, I suspect, is quite flawless since he's such a perfectionist as well as being heart and soul dedicated to Her Lordship.

…at least, I hope he is.

The desire to use my gift on him, to make sure of him, flared… and died. I couldn't tell if it was because I trusted him not to cross the Emperor—even for Baras—or because I was afraid of what I might find.

It would kill Her Lordship. And she seemed so closed-minded to conversations about the topic.

"So, we're getting close, right?" Vette broke in, bouncing nervously in her seat. "To offing Darth Creepy, I mean. We're really going to do it? 'Cuz I'm getting tired of expecting his guys to kick in our door while we're asleep."

Her Lordship looked at the Captain.

"I've added the additional security measures," he answered almost soothingly. "Even if they get in, they'll have enough work cut out for them to allow for an evacuation."

Vette studied his face with her big purple eyes, then nodded acceptance of his assurance. It said something about the quality of his work if she could take it on his word that things would be okay in that quarter.

"There's no question we're going to do it—or rather, _I'm_ going to do it," Her Lordship continued, sipping her wine. "It hasn't been in question since he tried to drop a mountain on top of my head." She sounded quite indifferent about it—would point out that the attempt failed, so why stay worked up over it, if anyone had commented—but the rest of us…

…well, she didn't watch herself claw her way out of her own grave, or so helplessly protest being put into the kolto tank. The look on the Captain's face, as if he was doing something reprehensible in the face of her almost heartbroken reproach swam in my mind's eye.

After dinner, I withdrew to the dormitory and climbed onto my bunk, kneeling in a meditative position. My indecision about the Captain chewed at me. Madaga-Ru's prediction and my own vision preyed on my mind until I wanted to scream.

"Jaesa."

My eyes popped open to see Her Lordship standing in the doorway. "I think a little combat practice will do you some good."

I was grateful. If I have to think about not ending up with burns over every inch of my body, I don't have room to think about everything or anything else.

 **On Hitches**

I exhaled slowly as Servant One blinked out. The silence in the wake of our final orders—Corellia at last, and then Baras himself—was absolute. Our military men both had similar expressions of consternation. This was Sith business; they could only be so helpful before becoming liabilities.

Fortunately, Pierce was certain the formal order or last contact or whatever from General Rakton would come any hour now… which left him torn between Her Lordship's Corellia campaign—which, in his mind, couldn't be anything but brilliant results-oriented action—versus the Bastion, the idea of taking it was almost like his mistress.

The Captain was quiet. Doubtless his agile mind was turning over double time trying to prepare scenarios and backup plans.

I bit the inside of my lip and tried not to fidget as Vette was doing. I still didn't know what to do about him, except to stick close to Her Lordship. Meditation left me certain I wasn't actually in the vision on Voss. That, and the perspective had an odd quality I could only suppose was a change in perspective—that is to say, the height from which I observed. If I stuck with her, it would take something serious to separate us… but that plan carried its own problems. Sometimes you make a future happen by trying to avoid it. Sometimes it happens because you let it. It's hard or impossible to tell which it is.

The Captain was also up unusually early this morning, picking off targets in the cargo bay. The target he'd been using had many blaster burns on it, the entire space of which was no bigger than the palm of my hand. I'd had the impression he'd been there and at it for a while by then. He only does that when he's got a lot on his mind.

By the time Servant One cut the call, the air in the ship seemed almost electrified.

"Set course, Captain," Her Lordship dictated, excitement and enthusiasm rippling in her aura.

"My lord," the Captain finally broke in. "I'm afraid Corellia is something of a no-go zone at this time. After the encounter on Hoth—" Most of the others flinched in some way. "—Baras had the world cordoned off. The entire system is blockaded—probably to keep you at a healthy distance."

Her Lordship's mouth thinned and she leaned on the holoterminal's base, locking her elbows. "Give me the details."

"Imperial vessels with business in the system have been fitted with special transponder signal emitters. Vessels without this IFF will be riddled with shot, no warning given. It's quite a solid setup," he reported.

"Then we'll have to get our hands on one of these transponders."

"M'lord, that means hitting an Imperial vessel. We do that, a lot of fellow soldiers are bought and paid for," Pierce noted.

"I'm not fond of the idea either, Pierce. But we'll lose more than a ship-full of soldiers if we don't do it. The Captain doesn't pilot like a smuggler."

"No, indeed," the Captain murmured, sounding a little annoyed by the fact now that need for such skills had come up. Smugglers can get anywhere they aren't supposed to be because they practice at it. The Captain hasn't needed that sort of practice; Baras' or Her Lordship's names make themselves welcome wherever they go. But now, it's his name versus hers. And he's the one with the accumulated clout.

According to the Hand, who were insistent that more details would come once we were on Corellia, the Dark Council member most vocal in opposing Baras was doing something there, while Baras was to the point of employing assassins.

Lose Darth Vowrawn and the campaign against Baras would find itself crippled. Maybe too crippled to continue.

"However, there are steps we can take to limit Imperial casualties." When Her Lordship nodded, the Captain continued. "Finding a straggler or a ship on an independent operation would be best. Unfortunately, this takes too much time. Boarding one of the relay ships is easier. It would also force the blockade to re-scramble, diverting resources away from the stable whole."

An extra layer of invisibility.

"Be easier to pick off a ship before it reaches the blockade," Pierce growled. "Just stake the place out and wait."

The Captain gave him a pointed look. "That would take too long, and Darth Vowrawn is being targeted by a particularly pernicious, persistent, Sith and the best minions he can shake to the top of his network. I have demonstrated to Her Lordship that I can get people out of the way when needful. I feel confident that a little strategic meddling with reduce if not remove any opposition in our path of travel. Particularly if Her Lordship will permit me to accompany her. I know the schematics of this type of ship by heart. I know how to get where we need to go, and it's more expedient to go in person than to have to walk a team via radio. Transmissions would surely be intercepted and there goes our element of surprise." By the end, he sounded unusually snappish, even for dealing with Pierce. His blue eyes glittered fiercely, but for once Her Lordship wasn't paying attention to the unusual display of emotion.

"You want us to take a ship that's _in_ the blockade?" Vette asked nervously.

"An outlier. Or first-line, depending on the direction from which you're coming," the Captain answered, pulling up a diagram. "This is how the Imperial Armed Forces arranges such blockades." Bright pinpricks of light forming a kind of staggered sphere appeared. "We'd take one from this layer." He touched one and it turned red.

"This is bollocks," Pierce grunted.

The Captain arched his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"I haven't heard a word about any kind of blockade around Corellia. Rakton'd have said something if there was one," Pierce challenged.

My stomach tightened.

"General Rakton would be handling logistics for your insertion team. You would be on a ship with a transponder, Lieutenant. No need to worry about the blockade. Such things are for unfriendly forces, after all," came the immediate put-down. "I've been monitoring Baras' transmissions since Quesh. I have not based my recommendations on rumors and hearsay. The stakes are too high."

The flick of eyes at Her Lordship told anyone paying attention why the stakes were high. For him, at least.

I ignored Boonmark's input. Although useful to have a killer like him, I can't say I'd developed a taste for his company. A one-track mind with a single idea rattling around inside his skull left me tired and bored when I had to deal with him for any real length of time. His conversation was quite limited in this respect.

Her Lordship, whose eyes fell closed as she listened to all this, drinking it in, opened them to look from one officer to the other. "This is too important to leave to chance. Captain, find us a target. Your plan seems appropriate, given the circumstances. Clear our path; get those people out of my way. We're in and out as quickly as feasible."

The Captain nodded before striding off for the cockpit. Moments later, the ship shimmied as we dropped into hyperspace.

"Pierce, you and Jaesa will hold yourself in readiness in case a second string is required. Broonmark, Vette, you will ensure no one boards or detains my ship," Her Lordship dictated briskly.

"My lord, it would be better if I went with you and the Captain," I protested. "You know I'm skillful at hiding; I could certainly obscure the both of you as well… though not to the point to total invisibility. I could do it well enough, however."

"And if the captain of this ship we're boarding wants to speak to the Sith in charge? One Sith is very like another to the military. Pierce will back you up—he knows what excuses will fly. All you have to do is be scary and stall them." She smiled as though to say I had that in the bag, that I shouldn't worry.

Her Lordship never plans a second string.

"I can bluff 'em," Pierce nodded, crossing his arms. "For a while, at least."

"Then we're fortunate the Captain is an efficient man."

"We're underway, my lord," the Captain announced upon his return. "We'll loiter just inside the system, long enough to pick a target, then we'll go in. The operation is fairly straightforward."

"Very good. Pierce, any word from General Rakton so far?"

"No, m'lord," came the grim answer. "Expecting it soon, though."

"If I'm off-ship on Corellia when he makes contact, don't waste time waiting to get my permission to depart or proceed. I expect this structure to fall. You have license to do what's necessary in pursuit of that objective."

Pierce's grin lacked a little of its usual enthusiasm, but dangling the Bastion—and free license to do whatever he needed to without getting her permission every step of the way—in front of him was enough to get his mind off the argument.

As Pierce and Her Lordship spoke, the Captain withdrew silently back to the helm. I watched him go. In a fair galaxy, two little burn marks would have appeared between his shoulders from the intensity of that gaze.

I don't like this. I don't like this at all.

I made to follow him, intending to have done with my insecurity, my worry, once and for all.

"Oh, Jaesa?" I stopped, cursing myself for having waited too long. "I require you for a moment," Her Lordship announced.

Damn it all to the Void.

 **On Betrayal**

There was something wrong with the mission. I could feel it. A growing sense of dread—something Her Lordship came close to criticizing as me brooding over the visions and warnings on Voss—pooled in my stomach as I withdrew to the medbay, kneeling on the floor.

It was my intention to try using Her Lordship's and my bond as a focus in order to use the Force to watch their progress. Naturally, I'd asked permission, which Her Lordship gave. It was good practice for a skill that might come in handy someday.

It would also put me in a prime position to respond at the drop of a hat. The thought was comforting.

I closed my eyes, focusing on Her Lordship, questing out with my senses the way I have in the past, searching for Light-side Sith or, as followed the case of that first dying Sith I found, questing out for Lord Cendence after having got an impression of him.

It was just like sitting in the gazebo on the lake at Her Lordship's family home. I stilled myself until I could see my own hands and lap through closed eyes. Then, I reached out, found Her Lordship burning like a hot coal, the Captain quieter and darker—dark as in dim—beside her.

It was hard to track them as they moved through the ship's corridors—fire alarms, security alerts, something of the like distracted most of the crew. I was used to stationary, or relatively stationary, focuses. The simple fact that I could track them, could perceive them, even if it wasn't perfect vision, spoke to the advancement of my skills.

-J-

Her Lordship followed the Captain at a brisk walk, slipping carefully through the halls. They didn't meet with any trouble. No resistance. No troopers, no welcome wagon. Nothing. He'd been correct in his assessment of his ability to keep their way mostly clear.

 _[This was too easy. Was it possible he was really betraying her? Madaga-Ru said someone was going to. I knew someone… oh stars—an Imperial place without me to back her up… I tried to break out of trance, but found my focus too sternly tied to what I witnessed. It would take effort to break free.]_

 _[It hurt to my core. A Sith who loved was vulnerable. A Sith who loved made the object of affection a target. It was so much safer to avoid that trap. Or try to. I should have acted sooner, should have made sure of him, ignored my fears and worries.]_

The Captain slowed as they entered a large room, an empty communications hub, stopping when he reached the center.

 _[She'd trained him to hide his mind, to protect himself from the manipulations and machinations of anyone as capable as she was—which meant anyone less so would have even less luck with his mind. She'd taught him to keep even her out. If anyone could lie to her, if anyone could act against her with some degree of subtlety it was the Captain.]_

The Captain sighed, his posture momentarily sagging before he returned it to his usual precise rigidity. His eyes wandered over Her Lordship's face and form. For a moment or two they stood silent. "I am sorry, my lord, but it seems our paths must diverge."

Her Lordship's expression went cold, her body slowly coiling as if to lunge or dodge—she didn't know which just yet.

"Out of respect, I wanted to be here to witness your fate."

 _[Bastard. She trusted him, respected him, loved him as no Sith should and_ this _is what he does with it?]_

Her Lordship's expression twisted, eyes narrowing grimly. "Some elaboration is required," Her Lordship answered coldly. "I don't take betrayal kindly… as you very well know."

The Captain's expression hardened into deep lines of dislike. "Hence the great care I've put into the matter. This whole scenario is a ruse. There's no blockade and no special signal transmitter. The fact is that Baras lured you here to have you killed."

"So, you choose to remain Baras' loyal lapdog…" her tone dripped with 'I thought you were smarter than that.' "It's clear you're not under a compulsion. What's the price for my head—or did he ask for my heart, seeing as you knew I had one? Promotions? Special assignments? Perhaps an advisory position on his personal council? Quite an achievement for a Force deaf stooge. But I thought you'd know better, having seen what happens to so many of his Force deaf stooges."

The Captain took all this stoically, the distaste morphing to outright disgust which made his eyes darken. "Baras remains one step ahead of everyone, including you. And I've been one step ahead of you as well." He shrugged. "Surprise."

"I detest surprises. Again, as you very well know."

The Captain inclined his head with an ironical air and moved aside so the large doors leading into the space could open, something he triggered from a small remote he produced from a pocket. Two immense war droids clanked into the room, their visual arrays panning back and forth to acquire their target.

 _[I wanted to scream, to jump to my feet, but couldn't. It was as if my attention was somehow anchored. I was trapped, and because I couldn't break free I was going to watch Her Lordship die. I owe her my life, I owe her_ everything _and I'm going to watch her die…]_

Her Lordship drew her lightsabers, studying the droids carefully. Though she'd been practicing dedicatedly to make sure she could use the one the Emperor gifted her reliably, she had no intention of using it for any purpose than executing Baras.

 _[There was something…_ odd _…_ wrong _even… about the picture before me… now what…?]_

"The vestiges of Siantide?" she asked, studying the droids.

"I'm pleased to say Darth Baras knows several figures in the Imperial Science division. He had these war droids commissioned especially for you… according to my specifications, of course. Who else had had a better chance to learn your methods and abilities?"

"…the training droids," Her Lordship breathed. "I've been training my own executioners for months."

"Indeed." He didn't sound happy about it.

 _[But I've seen Her Lordship regret necessity. What I didn't understand was the Captain's reasoning. Why settle for being Baras' stooge, with a sword forever dangling over his head, when he was already Her Lordship's advisor, respected and valued apart from their personal entanglement? Her Lordship had, I knew very well, promised him she wouldn't meddle with his career, even if she felt justified in using her pull to boost him through the ranks to a position his skills truly merited.]_

 _[…the Captain isn't an ambitious man, just like her Lordship isn't an ambitious woman. They both function for the betterment of the Empire, each after their own fashion. Baras is set_ against _the Empire. The Captain heard all about the meeting with the Emperor from Her Lordship, was allowed to look at the weapon the Emperor gifted her with. She said he wasn't under a compulsion…]_

Her Lordship stood frozen where she was, eyes on the droids.

"If it's any comfort, my lord, there is a nearly negligible chance that you will succeed," the Captain announced.

"Then you've given me too much of a chance to do so. You know how I love defying expectations—especially yours. I thought you were smarter than this."

A splash of blotchy color appeared in the Captain's face. "If anything, 'nearly negligible' is overestimating your chances. Any so-called indestructible material can be damaged by its own kind. The same hold true for you _Sith_." His tone and expression held pure venom.

"You say that with such venom. If you find my kind so repulsive—"

"Is it not usual for the condemned to be granted a last request? It seemed the least I could do."

 _[My mind suddenly began to agitate in a different direction, little phrases jumping out at me. He warned her that there was a chance to succeed—and 'nearly negligible' is a margin Her Lordship excels at exploiting. He's using her own training droids… or is he? Those droids had two training profiles, mine and hers. How hard would it be to use mine, something Her Lordship could easily handle…? And these droids are_ to the Captain's specifications _. Even if Baras double checked them… is there any guarantee he would know what was and was not overpowering with relation to Her Lordship?]_

 _[Doubt. He's seeded doubt and if I feel it so does she. Doubt is the first step in defeating an opponent, as he, she, and I very well know.]_

Her Lordship regarded him with something like… hurt. "You truly are a piece of work, Malavai—" She gave a short exhale. " _Captain_. They should have shunted you to Intelligence. Then the Empire wouldn't be losing a fine asset… or suffer Baras running it into the ground."

"Baras will lead us to _victory_ ," the Captain retorted nastily.

"The Emperor disagrees."

"The Emperor is an absentee landlord. And you have had more than enough time to think of a way out."

 _[She called him by his given name, even if she made as though to correct herself. No matter how attached she might be, she wouldn't make a slip like that, no matter what kind of relationship they were in. she's too well practiced in sorting out her private life and her professional one. He has to know that, even if Baras doesn't. Baras has always believed Her Lordship doesn't think with her head where the Captain is concerned. It would be true, I suppose, of so many Sith.]_

 _[Patience is a virtue for Sith and only now, as things began to crystalize—_ you have had more than enough time to think of a way out _—did I begin to hope. Madaga-Ru's words for me came back, the ones about not counting Her Lordship out unless I saw the body, and even then I should double check to make sure she was really dead. The vision on Voss: it showed me an aftermath, it didn't show me anything else. The future guards itself, leaves things out or shows fragments painfully open to interpretation…]_

 _[My mind began to reel and I reached out for Her Lordship. She'd nearly sealed the connection between us, but what little I could sense was a kind of a keyed-up, on-edge nature, like she was standing on a cliff about to jump without knowing whether she would be able to save herself from the sudden stop at the bottom.]_

"I'm going to trash your droids," Her Lordship grated out, "and then I'm going to kill you."

 _[_ There _, that's what's off about this picture: she's not wearing her red and copper sleeveless robe. I didn't notice it because I'm so used to seeing her without it. It could be that she just didn't want to draw attention to herself if she and the Captain ran into trouble—red hair might be remembered but the robe is distinctive. More than that, her lightsabers are truly_ red _, not the copper color she switched to after Hoth.]_

"If you survive the first seven moves, I'll be concerned," the Captain responded, pulling his blaster.

 _[Six moves. That's how many moves Her Lordship says unlocks another fighter's basic style. On the seventh move, she'll know, really know, if this is betrayal or just a blind. Because if Baras thinks she's dead, thinks the Captain really did the deed, then she has time to get to Vowrawn because Baras won't feel such a need to rush things or raise further obstacles.]_

 _[The Captain's mind is closed… and the Captain's a clever man. If…_ if _Baras tried to persuade him, compel him, to action… the Captain is just clever enough to recognize it for what it was and—instead of being confused or perplexed by an apparently ridiculous gesture and command—play along. And Baras, egotist that he is, would never expect such a thing not to work because Her Lordship cultivates the impression that her strength is in her sword-arm,_ not _in use of the Force. That just isn't true: suspension like she's used on Rathari, like she's used on me, is tricky, delicate even, but she does it confidently.]_

Her Lordship jumped into action, throwing the Captain bodily to one side, slamming him into a wall with stunning force.

 _[Because if this isn't betrayal, she doesn't want to damage him—but she has to make it look good. She likes to play with her food; Baras would expect that, would expect her to want to take the Captain apart piece by piece in retribution. Passion in revenge equal to the passion already expended. Expectation creates blind spots.]_

She dodged, by a narrow margin, the first volley of gunfire from the droids. It was a very narrow margin, as an ugly mark appeared on one arm when she failed to deflect a bolt properly.

 _[Six moves. A total of twelve moves with two droids. Relief blossomed through me as she dodged the seventh attack from the first droid, the seventh attack of the second droid striking its partner. 'Anything can be damaged by its own like.' He wasn't trying to kill her.]_

 _[Baras was probably watching from some hidden camera, probably waiting to see her lifesigns drop and go out when she took a fatal blow. Watching for duplicity, but that had been mapped out long ago—explicitly or implicitly. Just not by him.]_

She blocked the next two attacks, then took the third to her midsection, just as she deflected the fourth bold to destroy the last droid.

The damage was bad, looked gruesome as she forced herself to straighten up, expression harsh against the pain. She seemed illuminated from within as she always is during battle, but there was something blacker, a hatred almost inexpressible as anything other than that ugly look.

 _[He'd turned down the power on the droids. A Siantide powered droid could do more damage than any other kind, even a good hit in a non-vital region could be fatal.]_

She dropped her lightsaber and let the force of the impact carry her to the ground. As she lay, aching and bleeding, her eyes rolled back. Her fingers around the one weapon she retained went flaccid.

 _['Peanut butter.']_

 _[The thought rippled to me before Her Lordship seemed to blank out. She wasn't dead; I could feel that, but she was totally inaccessible. She certainly_ looked _dead… just as she had in my vision. But she_ wasn't _dead: she'd put herself into a state of suspension, as she'd done the both of us on Hoth, as she'd done to Rathari on Nar Shaddaa. She worked so hard to keep most people convinced that she had to strong-arm the Force, that she didn't make much use of it because she found it difficult.]_

 _[It was all a lie, an impression she carefully cultivated because she knew it caused blind spots—and those who discovered the mistake rarely lived to betray the secret. She didn't lean on the flashy things many Sith liked to parade, but she employed subtle ones that enhanced her physical capabilities. She kept those who weren't close to her completely blind to reality, showing them one thing while others lurked just out of sight.]_

 _[I swallowed, aware that I had just watched one of the greatest hoodwinks of my lifetime… and that the proof of the pudding was yet to come. The idea that Baras, so deft at manipulations and machinations, might have had the wool pulled over his eyes by a Force deaf flunky and a disgraced apprentice was too delicious. To see a miscalculation of that magnitude, and him so convinced he was on top of the dung heap… it nearly stole my breath with anticipation.]_

The Captain picked himself up dazedly, found the war droids at rest. Slowly, he got to his feet.

 _[Which confirmed that my vision had been from his perspective.]_

Her Lordship lay sprawled on the floor, unmoving, her lightsabers dead near her. She wasn't breathing.

The communications console suddenly lit up, revealing the holographic blue form of Darth Baras.

 _[This was where my vision ended… is it possible that was all Baras would see? This surface material, without perceiving the deeper game?]_

" _I see you survived, Quinn. Impressive_ ," the Darth noted blandly.

"My lord." The Captain finished picking himself up, hunched over and aching. He moved as though he might have cracked ribs and was probably thanking the stars that the impact hadn't broken his neck—the droids had opened fire too quickly for her to pay much attention to him when they were the real danger.

He produced his medical scanner and limped over to her prone form. Her features looked severe and sullen, a trick of that slightly too-heavy jawline and pouting lower lip. Her eyes gazed sightlessly at the ceiling as he touched her neck.

No pulse. Not in her throat. Not in her wrist. No breath issued from her mouth or nose to hint that she was playing possum. He lifted the scanner and ran it along her muscular figure. "She's dead, my lord," the Captain announced woodenly. "Lifesigns are all n-negative."

 _[Just because he betrayed her didn't mean he wouldn't miss her, wouldn't harbor regret. Her Lordship was unique, a woman among women. No man in his position could destroy that and not feel it. It would be his version of our fight with Master Wyelett.]_

" _Show me._ "

The Captain moved back to the holoterminal and passed Baras the scanner's results. He leaned heavily on the terminal's base, skin glazed in pain-sweat.

" _Yes_ ," Baras mused, cocking his head. " _And I sense nothing of her in the Force. You've done your job remarkably well, Captain._ "

"It was my duty, my lord," the Captain answered softly.

 _[Here it was, the last hurdle. Baras saw a corpse. He_ sensed _Her Lordship's absence. I only felt her presence because of the way she and I were linked; even then I only felt her barely there. If I wasn't actively paying attention, squinting as it were, even I wouldn't know she was there.]_

 _[The first six moves battling the droids were meant to be on par with Her Lordship's skill. Everything else was likely my own much lower standard which would give her time to think and figure things out—like how to die convincingly—while allowing her to make things look good at decreased risk to herself. Brilliant, the pair of them!]_

" _Now, there remains but one more hurdle_."

"Her crew," the Captain predicted, forcing himself to look at the corpse, then closing his eyes, blocking sight of the spill of red hair, the pool of red blood, the darkness complete, its fire snuffed out. He turned his head to regard Darth Baras, giving every appearance of trying to shove down regret. "If I'm to do anything about her crew—kill them or suborn them, as you please my lord—I'll need her corpse. Otherwise, they'll assume I simply left her and fled."

" _I take it you have measures in place already_?" Baras asked suspiciously.

 _[Never trust a traitor. But Sith aren't supposed to trust as a general rule.]_

"I do. Pierce and the Talz can be repurposed with a little care and effort. The Twi'lek… she's of little value in any capacity. Jaesa will have to be killed. Her loyalty to Her Lordship is unbreakable. Poison should do the trick and I _am_ the ship's medic."

Baras hesitated, frowning at the corpse. " _I want that body, Quinn. I want to see that bitch's cold, dead features for myself_."

 _[No doubt to spit in her face. I could conjecture about more unpleasant things, but I'll spare myself the nausea.]_

"I shall ensure she arrives safely, my lord."

" _Very well. Baras out_." The hologram clicked off.

The Captain hauled Her Lordship into a medic's carry and started off at a jog.

-J-

The red-bladed weapons were explained: they had to be left behind. She wouldn't want to lose an expensive pair with such an important battle looming. I pulled myself out of my trance and got to my feet, legs wobbly from having been folded under me so long.


	48. Chapter 48

**On Blind Time**

Her Lordship hung limp and lifeless from the Captain's shoulders. He looked worse for wear himself, and Her Lordship's skin showed several weals from blaster fire. Blood from the wounds liberally splotched the Captain's uniform.

"Pierce!" the Captain barked as soon as he was through the airlock. "Get us out of here! Coordinates are already in the computer! Go!" The last word ended on a strangled kind of screech.

Pierce looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn't. He simply turned on his heel and was gone as I, accompanied by Vette and Broonmark, followed the Captain into the medical bay. Broonmark remained at the door, warbling nervously in Talzzi.

"Peanut butter, Hella. _Peanut butter_ ," the Captain breathed urgently, cradling her head in both hands, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. I'd never seen him tremble before, usually forgot that he knew her real name, let alone used it. He'd always seemed so unshakable, so in control, so professional.

Not so now. This was the man who loved her, not the soldier who served her.

It _would_ take a powerful Sith to rattle a man like him.

Now though, he'd finally found the limit for keeping his composure. He was well and truly, gut-wrenchingly afraid. Terrified. Aware that calculations could only go so far and that this might be the one time he calculated wrong—the one time it had to be _perfect_.

I could feel it, nauseating and twisting, aching like a mortal wound, the emotional turmoil having broken free of its constraints. My head began to spin; he'd become so 'quiet' over the months I'd known him. He was screaming now, the noise of it somehow amplified by virtue of its having grown so quiet for so long.

Her Lordship's aura suddenly fluttered, like a computer system booting up. She was there again through our bond, right where she belonged. A little sluggish, a little dazed, but those things would pass. Part of me wanted to burst into hysterical tears. Part of me wanted so smash around any loose furnishing I could get to in the mother of all hissy fits.

She took a shaky breath, then chuckled woozily, "… ah. That's a thing to wake up to." She opened her eyes, her aura growing stronger, as she raised a hand to brush her fingers against the Captain's cheek. "You, of course. Not the peanut butter."

The Captain's sharp exhale was followed by a moment of unrestrained action during which he pressed a kiss to her brow—I think he would have preferred a proper kiss, however chaste, but with her breathing that uneven…

Desperation and relief swirled about him in a miasmic fog.

"Are _you_ badly hurt?" Her Lordship asked, fingers tracing his jaw and throat, feather-light.

If I was careful I could feel that she was in pain… but nothing like what might be expected from the looks of her.

"No, my lord." He would have told her 'no' even if he was missing an arm.

"What the blazes is going on here?" Pierce demanded a moment later, looming over my shoulder, Broonmark's warble a soft counterpoint to the soldier's strident demand.

"What's going on is that there are _far_ too many people around my sickbed," Her Lordship declared coolly, tone stronger as she let her hand fall away from the Captain's face. She pushed herself wincingly up on one elbow and glared in a fashion so characteristic to her that the crew immediately began to relax. If she could muster that particular look, there was nothing terribly wrong with her.

The Captain, on the other hand, immediately busied himself preparing to see to her injuries. I could feel Her Lordship's concern for him, noted the way her eyes discreetly followed the way he moved, cataloguing any inconsistency or apparent discomfort.

"Jaesa."

I knew that, far from dismissing me, she was requiring that I stay with her while dismissing Broonmark, Vette, and Pierce. I waited until the door hissed shut behind them, separating the Captain, Her Lordship, and me from everyone else.

"Master!" It was part recrimination, part demand for answers. The indecision over whether to cry or throw things around in a fit of temper was difficult to master. So I compromised: I heaved a breath, grabbed the nearest soft thing to hand—a roll of bandages—and pitched it at the far wall. The roll sailed over her head to land some foot or so to the Captain's left, unraveling as it went.

He stiffened and I could almost hear the 'Jaesa, _please_ ,' of reprimand he didn't issue.

"Captain… I think your droids got in a rather good hit," Her Lordship said delicately, settling back against the medtable and prodding the worst injury.

"Yes."

Her Lordship gave a low groan as the Captain pressed a hypospray to her arm, probably full of painkillers.

I wanted to scream at them both, confusion roiling around me.

"See how she worries about me?" Her Lordship asked the Captain indulgently.

The Captain didn't answer, merely continued doing something with his medical equipment. His injuries did seem mostly confined to bruises, _maybe_ cracked ribs; Her Lordship had been absolutely gentle, however it might have looked to an outsider. If she'd really pitched him, he'd have severely broken bones.

I looked from Her Lordship and her burns to the Captain and his bruises. "I was watching. I saw everything."

"What did you see?" Her Lordship asked, shifting fretfully.

"This is… that whole show back there. It was for Baras' benefit?" I said slowly. All her comments about visions and the future crystallized, a powerful object lesson which I doubted I would ever forget.

"Are you asking me or telling me?" she demanded with the characteristic crispness which expressed that I was on the right track and she'd be disappointed if I turned out to be making shots in the dark.

I considered, reassured by the impatient note in her voice.

Her Lordship isn't an ordinary Sith and the Captain isn't an ordinary Imperial. It's why she wasn't more worried when that Voss-thing told her there was a traitor among her people. The Voss are big on interpretation but, as the Hand said, even Voss interpretation sometimes suffers. What the Voss saw as an invasion was simply a distraction so the Emperor could gain a Mystic for the Voice… and when the Voss-thing saw 'someone plotting to betray' Her Lordship… he didn't see that it was all a show. When _I_ saw her death, I saw without context—interpretation suffered from not having all the necessary information.

Hoth. There would have been time for Draahg and Baras to have spoken with the Captain, for the Captain to explain how he'd been holding himself in reserve as Baras could expect, how Her Lordship had been training her own executioners for months. No one would question the Captain about that, it was too in keeping with his character—just in case the first line of assault failed, there was a time and place for a dagger in the back. And it was a clever solution.

It was neat, elegant, and classically the Captain—a man whose loyalty Baras held and whom Baras probably believed he could compel. It was a plan that took into account Her Lordship's emphasis on combat training, something it was too easy to imagine her using eagerly, refining the knife to go between her ribs.

And as far as the Captain and Her Lordship's liaison…

…Her Lordship instructed the Captain how to protect his mind. She'd made it clear to Rathari that a Sith-hunter was always less powerful than the Sith he serves… but Her Lordship isn't a traditionalist. She'd enabled the Captain to protect himself from anyone—including her—to close his mind to manipulations and to hide the feelings he didn't want to show while projecting what was expected as a kind of shield. _That_ was the source of the odd flatness I'd remarked from time to time: I recognized the 'flat underside' of emotions because my gift made me sensitive to things that stuck out: it was the first real evidence of passive use, but I hadn't recognized it. He was able to leave out in the open desire, but not the love coupled with it; to leave out in the open disdain for some of her methods but not the thrill it often gave him to watch her at her work; to leave out in the open his gratitude and sense of obligation to Baras but not how those things had soured.

And Baras would believe that the Captain's career was all that mattered to him, because for the longest time that was true—too long, surely, for that to change. But Her Lordship wasn't the average Sith. She'd shattered that static focus and raised up something new in its place: fresh ambition fed by freedom to discover it had wings with which to soar that were strong and whole.

And she's observed a few times that it takes a certain kind of woman to appreciate the Captain at his full value. He might not be able to articulate it, but surely he'd now the difference between a woman who could appreciate him at his proper value versus any other. How do you just let go of something like that, cast it aside like it didn't matter?

Understanding of the whole picture was like dawn breaking over a landscape, banishing shadows back and dispelling them, more and more each moment.

I remembered a certain soup on Alderaan, one that Gesselle particularly despised. One prepares the base broth, then puts in a lobster—a live one, hence why Gesselle didn't like it. Slowly, the heat would be turned up until the creature boiled to death. Baras wouldn't have necessarily perceived that the Captain was leaning to hide from him: contact was sporadic, and building mental defenses takes time, occurs in increments. And the Captain has always stilted, or tried to stilt, his emotions when he's 'on duty' which is during working hours or when interacting with a Sith. More than that, isn't it reasonable to assume that expending pent-up emotion with Her Lordship would leave less that he had to push back?

Baras boiled to death in the illusion that the Captain's feelings towards Her Lordship were infatuation or purely physical, something that got quieter and less powerful over time as passion and tension burned off, that the Captain was a true cutthroat patriot, willing to do whatever it took to stay under Her Lordship's radar for treachery.

Woven into her lessons and the exercises, beyond building his defenses, were ways to hide what he actually _felt_ , presenting near the top and middle—anywhere Baras could get without really digging, without encountering that bunker. The most easily accessible feelings all held grains of truth. The Captain doesn't always agree when she grinds someone under her boot. She's been known to deviate from plan for the sake of a bloodbath—however strategic a purpose it might serve. He approves of her pro-military viewpoints. I know he's felt a little displaced since I joined the scene—which means that Baras could interpret the Captain accepting a physical relationship as a way to keep close to her since he no longer accompanied her into combat, where close ties can form…

…with the end result of portraying their relationship as something traditionally Sith, anything more than that hidden beneath the kind of details that might make Baras vomit. Things the Darth would actively avoid tripping over.

I'm not certain the old man likes women.

Or men.

Or voyeurism.

In fact, I think I'd vote something with tentacles if anything at all.

And hadn't I, myself, nudged Baras' impressions? Painted the Captain as a career-oriented person, willing to stoop to pandering to a Sith in hopes of advancement? Didn't I tell Baras explicitly that Her Lordship didn't think with her brain where the Captain was concerned?

The plan was so elegant and so elaborate, put into place piece by piece, brick by brick, built before necessity demanded an actual plan. She knew something was up with the signal transmitter, when Pierce said he hadn't heard a thing about it.

"How far have you gotten, Jaesa?" Her Lordship asked wearily.

"He used my training module," I responded, looking from my contemplation of the floor to the Captain and Her Lordship, who was now sitting up. Apparently they'd let me have my deep reverie.

The Captain's tunic lay beside Her Lordship on the medtable, his undershirt tugged up to allow Her Lordship to investigate the nasty bruising on his shoulder, left when he'd struck the wall. She had one hand around his middle, splayed flat on his stomach and was whispering something in his ear—given his surprised arched-eyebrowed expression probably something suitably lascivious to prove she was _quite_ alright, injuries withstanding—while her other hand ran gentle circles over the damaged flesh.

"He used _my_ training module with six opening moves from yours… and a code embedded in the programming to switch the lasers to something nonlethal… something Baras or anyone he had comb over the program would miss." Incremental changes, coded in different fashions? Like in an interrogation, asking the same question but phrased differently over and over again. "All you had to do was make it look good… and all the Captain had to do was trust that you wouldn't jump the gun and kill him outright."

' _Malavai is mine._ ' She wasn't wrong.

Her Lordship smiled, kissed the nape of the Captain's neck before resting her chin on his shoulder and giving me her attention. "Patience is the hallmark of the very best Sith. There you go," she kissed the side of the Captain's neck. "That shouldn't hurt so much, now."

The Captain straightened up, thus dislodging Her Lordship, and began resettling his clothes. "Thank you."

A grin began to warm my features, a grin Her Lordship matched until we practically leered at one another, sharing the maniacal glee over having duped a master of creating dupes. "Baras thinks you're dead, thinks the Captain is trying to suborn or kill the rest of the crew—neither of which he can do in a few short hours. While he's waiting for his minion to perform this function we sneak to Corellia and lay hold of this Vowrawn fellow while Baras thinks there's no need to throw hasty obstructions in your path. Or, if we can't move that fast, to pare down the number of threats Vowrawn faces before the scheme is exposed. Every little bit helps at this point."

"Good. Very good," Her Lordship answered. "This is blind time, Jaesa, and we must use it to our advantage. Now. Go to the rest of the crew and make them understand that nothing aboard this ship has altered. Pierce most of all."

"I can deal with Pierce, my lord," I answered with a smirk.

Her Lordship gave a knowing chuckle before wincing.

I withdrew to find myself an inch from walking into Pierce's chest. He'd stepped out of the medbay but hadn't moved very far from it. Literally. "You need to step back, Pierce," I declared coolly.

He took a grudging half step back—partly because he didn't like giving ground but partly because Vette stood just behind him; he might well step on her if he wasn't careful and if she wasn't attentive.

"Our lord is injured but in no danger," I began, regarding Broonmark, Pierce and Vette. "The Captain, likewise, is relatively undamaged."

Vette looked ready to explode—whether in tears or a tantrum of relief, I didn't know. Her _lekku_ twitched as she began to shiver, her eyes finally tearing up.

Broonmark took it philosophically, stepping up to Vette's back, warbling soothingly and rubbing one furry paw against her cheek. I supposed it was meant to be comforting to the Twi'lek.

As far as Broonmark was concerned, the Sith called the shots. He fell in line. He didn't question her when it came to orders and he certainly didn't have any opinion or comment on what Her Lordship did with the Captain. He might slit the Captain's throat if ordered or if the man presented a true clear and present danger… but Broonmark was wonderfully pragmatic. Her Lordship handled her own affairs.

Pierce on the other hand, with his deep dislike of the Captain, would look for a reason to act on that dislike. Hence why Her Lordship told me to make sure he fully understood that the Captain had never been higher in Her Lordship's good books than he was now.

"The Captain has done all that he has done on her orders. Their scheming has purchased us blind time in which to act against their former master. If she finds that anything with regards to this ship dynamic has changed, _anything_ , she will be highly disappointed." That was all I really needed to say on the matter. "Pierce. Where are we headed?"

"Captain had us locked in for Corellia, got a landing pad all picked out." Pierce answered.

"Her Lordship may yet give some explanation of things, to set your minds at ease," I announced.

Vette settled against Broonmark, content to be reassured and willing to accept that reassurance at face value.

Broonmark warbled his approval—he thought very little of Baras—before urging Vette towards the entertainment corner. I knew quite well that Her Lordship had made Vette Broonmark's responsibility; Broonmark simply had a liberal interpretation of that, and treated her more or less like a youngling of the clan—someone to be fussed over, comforted when distressed, sometimes humored, certainly protected… and taught to hunt, to kill, effectively. I don't know how that was going.

Pierce grunted his understanding.

"Are plans for the Bastion progressing?" It was a safe topic, and one of Pierce's favorites.

He wasn't as easily distracted—even by the Bastion—as I would have liked. Maybe because it was me asking and not Her Lordship.

"Rakton finally comm'd. Wanted to speak to Her Lordship. Get her up to speed, then I'm off." He seemed uneasy at the thought that his mission might run concurrent with Her Lordship's. If she needed him…

"I'm sure Her Lordship really won't need you dancing attendance on her. The Bastion is, after all, a major target with unspeakable tactical value. She won't waste an opportunity like that."

"Hope not."

Her Lordship appeared that very moment, out of her armor and dressed in medical scrubs—probably the most decent thing it was quick to put on.

The Captain followed immediately, eyes still lingering on the medical patches—hidden and visible—healing Her Lordship's burns. His aura had begun buttoning back up, but I still had the distinct impression that dragging Her Lordship back to their quarters was high on his list of 'what to do now.' She might have made a promise of how she meant to prove she was alright, but I'd bet hard cash he has a few ideas of his own on how to make sure of it.

Ugh. They make me _so_ uncomfortable sometimes… at least it's clear he can feel as strongly, passionately, as she does… and understands how to express both those things for a Sith.

"Let us begin making use of our blind time. Jaesa, while Pierce briefs me, get on the comm. There's a frequency linking us to my assassins. Tell them to wait for us at the landing field. Then contact Rathari, tell him to prepare himself: the time from revenge draws close."

The Captain did his best to contain his surprise at hearing Rathari was alive.

"Of course, my lord," I answered, inclining my head before heading for the terminal.

 **A Joint Operation**

" _My lord,_ " General Rakton inclined his head politely. " _Firstly allow me to pass along my belated condolences. Moff Thorne was a friend. His loss is quite the blow to Imperial Armed Forces._ "

"Thank you, General." Her Lordship answered smoothly. "Now, I believe you're calling about my man, Pierce."

" _Indeed. I've received the lieutenant's reports and have reinstated Black Ops. I hope you won't object to being named their patroness_?"

I smiled at this. They don't have to do that, of course, and although her name adds weight to the division most military men would like to leave the Sith out of their operations. I could only suppose that between her late godfather being who he was and the reputation about her growing in those parts of the military she's had contact with—if Pierce is to be believed, it's specialists and the like, useful people—made him amenable to attaching Pierce's Black Ops unit to her name.

"I'm honored, General. You may consider Pierce excused from his regular duties and assignments until such a time as his mission has concluded."

" _Pierce. As everything seems to be in order with your objective and your lord, you have my permission to begin your assault on the Bastion. Return to Vaiken Spacedock to rendezvous with the rest of your unit. The necessary arrangements have all been made._ "

Pierce nodded, but his aura rippled with enthusiasm, thrilled with the prospect of carving his division's name into history. He's something of a glory hound, Pierce, but like any good hound whatever he catches goes at his master's feet.

I bring her glory as a Sith.

He brings her glory as a military specialist.

It's not a bad start for a power base.

" _Again, my lord. Your support in this endeavor is greatly appreciated,_ " General Rakton declared. " _Either Pierce or I shall keep you apprised._ "

"You needn't compromise this mission, General. I understand operational security and, while Pierce serves under me, I recognize that I remain outside Imperial Armed Forces."

The General really did seem surprised by this. " _I… appreciate… your understanding, my lord._ " Meaning, I'm sure, he'd been wondering how heavily he would have to edit whatever he passed along… and how much it would cost him in terms of an unhappy Sith.

"Pierce speaks most highly of you, General, as did my late godfather," Her Lordship answered. "I have the utmost faith that this mission will succeed. Therefore, I shall await being able to congratulate Black Ops and you on a successful mission."

She kept hitting all the right notes: a Sith who trusted the Imperials to do their job and do it right without needing to micromanage them? Priceless. And if he keeps her goodwill—he's a shrewd one—she could be a valuable ally. Namely, she could rattle the chains of any untitled Sith who want to throw their weight around and gum up the works.

Then again, I expect her to be named a Darth the day she takes Baras' head—unless 'Wrath' puts her truly outside (and in some ways above) the power structure. The military can never have too many allies, especially among high-ranking Sith. Look at what Moff Broysc got out of his patronage by Lord Grathan.

Hm. Darths seem to take professional names. I wonder what hers would be. Darth Acheron—no, that's taken? Darth Styx? Darth Gonna-Run-Your-Ass-Over? I stifled a grin.

No, wait: she liked that other one. The river of fire in the underworld one. Apropos.

" _Due to the massive Republic presence at the Bastion, we've made special arrangements to get Pierce's team within range. You'll infiltrate a shuttle of Republic reinforcements scheduled for the area. We've already procured the necessary disguises._ "

"Disguises, hm?" Her Lordship smirked.

"… _aaand as secrecy is such an essential part of the plan, my lord, I must ask that you continue to remain hands off. The Republic will undoubtedly have Jedi who would, er,_ _sense_ _your presence…"_ the General said it so awkwardly it was clear he had only a cloudy view of how Sith and Jedi worked.

Her Lordship chuckled at this. "This is not my mission, General. Simply know that I am prepared to help."

" _You've made the assault possible, my lord,_ " Rakton answered. " _The credit is yours…_ _should_ _Pierce and his team succeed._ " With that, the general transferred his attention to Pierce. " _The Empire is trusting Black Ops. I hope that trust is not misplaced. Once you've rendezvoused with your team, the timetable is yours._ "

I bit my lip: the general was as good at getting Pierce keyed up for maximum performance as Her Lordship. Different tactics, of course, but apparently the general deserves some part of his reputation.

" _Rakton out._ " He waited for Her Lordship to end the call, which she did.

"Go on, Pierce. I know you're anxious to begin," Her Lordship declared.

Pierce hesitated for the briefest moment, as if leaving Her Lordship while things were so unsettled bothered him, but he buttoned up that idea. The Bastion was too much his heart's desire to be put aside if he had even a shred of evidence that he wasn't absolutely mission essential.

Her Lordship managed perfectly well before he joined the crew and she wouldn't have sent him on if she didn't have confidence that she could handle whatever Baras threw at her with one man down. "On it, m'lord. You won't regret this." He turned on his heel and hurried off to assemble his gear—he couldn't actually shuttle back to Vaiken until we landed.

If she does regret it, he'll be the first to know. I'm not worried, though. He's a good soldier and good at what he does.

"Now, Jaesa. We've work to do and I find you are utterly indispensable."

I grinned at her. That's just what I want to be.


	49. Chapter 49

**Corellia, Part I**

Lord Khellin and his men had not yet arrived at Corellia—not that they'd really had enough time to mobilize and get there. Her Lordship simply gave them our berth before telling them that the Captain was their contact. He would direct them in her absence or connect them via holo, depending on the situation.

Using assassins to deal with other assassins would be a fairly good idea. Even using Kellin and his men in a bodyguard capacity, once we've found and extracted Vowrawn somewhere safe isn't a bad plan.

Pierce was off the ship and on the first transport heading for Vaiken Spacedock, as excited as a schoolboy released for the holidays. He did resent the back-and-forth, and I didn't blame him. It was a waste of time, but it's hard to coordinate something as big as the assault on the Bastion via holo over that distance.

Or so I imagine. Intercepted transmissions are a popular mission-killing thing.

Our task, Her Lordship's and mine, was essentially simple: a representative of the Hand, Servant Eleven (which made no sense, because I couldn't think of a species that that hands with more than ten fingers between the two of them) would serve as our handler. This Servant was tasked with locating Darth Vowrawn, then we would extract him to a place of safety—probably the _Astral Blight_.

Meanwhile, we were looking for assassins; the Captain was running simulations and whatever else he does in order to thin the possible landing areas, given Corellia's disrupted (and deconstructed) state. The Hand was aware of three assassins, probably all from different backgrounds. I thought back to Her Lordship's campaign on Balmorra, hiding her real objective amongst the bodies of the Empire's general foes to facilitate Baras' requirement that no one realize she was an assassin and not just a vanguard in an Imperial Sith-run military action.

So I'll bet we're looking at three _very_ different individuals.

Corellia smelled like smoke and burnt duracrete; the noise of engagements between the Republic and the Empire made me wonder how anyone was supposed to sleep when they weren't fighting. The sky was hazy and dark, in spite of the early afternoon hour.

I'd never seen a true urban warzone, and would have been happy if I never had. The idea of civilian casualties seemed more concrete with every burned out, bombed out, or collapsed residential area we passed. Because, of course, that's part of urban warfare—the Republic would be panicking about civilian casualties, stretching themselves thin to stop them rather than ignoring them to strike at the Imperial forces causing the damage.

Short-sighted. Still, the populace seemed to be fighting back—or that was the report the Captain fed us as we traveled by speeder. Her Lordship didn't want to risk running into one of Baras' creatures, thus having her status as a living woman disclosed before it absolutely had to be.

The Captain's excuse for being here when he was supposed to be heading back to Dromund Kaas was his business. He'd probably cite some kind of technical malfunction that messed with the hyperdrive or something—or maybe that I was dying from some unidentified malady and needed proper care. (Hint-hint, nudge-nudge.)

We took only one vehicle through the war torn streets, me riding behind Her Lordship, to make ourselves a smaller target. I did what I could to blot us out, but found the exercise when moving at speed disorienting. It was good practice, though I nearly fell on my nose when I finally swung off the vehicle.

"Careful," Her Lordship prompted, catching me by the arm.

"Thanks…" I mumbled, regaining my balance and rolling my shoulders. The disorientation cleared quickly.

"Quinn, we're here," Her Lordship announced into her holocom.

" _I have your location._ _You've reached the general vicinity of the best and most discreet landing spot. It's on the roof of the building you're facing. A shuttle recently touched down, but we've no way of knowing whether your man—assuming my prediction is accurate—is still nearby._ "

The building was mostly undamaged; except for the Imperial troops being pushed back, the sector was fairly quiet compared to others. Mostly commercial, which made it less of an effective target for the Empire since residential areas were softer and resulted in more chaos for the Republic to worry about.

"Finding him is my concern," I announced, looking around. A quick ping—or so I decided to call it—of anyone we met would probably let me find the assassin easily. I could scan a lot of people in a short time if I needed to. After all, I caught Rylon and Dellocon with an un-honed ability, out of the corner of my eye (metaphorically speaking). I was better trained, now.

"Then we'll start at the bottom and move up. Any news on Khellin?"

" _No, my lord, but fighting is moving in your direction. In this case, the Imperial Armed Forces are being pushed back. I'll contact you if the situation changes._ "

"Then we'll intervene if we need to," Her Lordship responded. "But securing our objectives must remain the priority."

" _Of course, my lord._ "

And _that_ is why the Empire is going to win: they cut to the main objective and accept the necessary collateral damage. They don't spread themselves thin while hoping for the best.

"You'll let me know when the time Baras could expect you to be on Dromund Kaas elapses, will you not?"

" _If he hasn't figured it out before then, I certainly shall. Given your abilities, I doubt he'll remain ignorant for long._ "

Her Lordship chuckled. "If he calls, you'll put him through for me?"

" _Certainly._ " The Captain didn't sound happy, but grimly satisfied… almost vindictive. Well, the Captain's a proud man and Baras not only traded a short leash for a long one (under the guise of magnanimity), he also tried to force the Captain to follow a path not of his choosing and, to add insult to injury, to turn on his own fiancée (not that Baras knew about that rather serious decision).

I glanced sidelong at Her Lordship. It's none of my business… but I worry for them. And I worry about Baras giving way to a fit of pique and strangling the Captain from halfway across the galaxy when he realizes the Captain is not actually his creature. Maybe he'll be smart and not give Her Lordship another reason to take him apart by inches.

We hadn't finished crossing the lobby—a comfortable one that seemed to belong to a department store of some kind—when a droid stepped out of one of the staircases leading to the next level (and eventually, to the roof). It stopped and I scowled: my power doesn't work on droids. Not that I'd ever admit it.

"Sith. Identify yourself," the droid commanded, leveling its rifle at Her Lordship.

I hadn't expected a droid assassin, but there was no way this was a domestic machine. It wasn't an HK (hunter-killer) model, but it was certainly not designed with peaceable interactions in mind.

"I'm the one sending you to the scrap heap," Her Lordship declared.

I raised a hand as the droid opened fire on her, lighting arcing out of my fingers, through the air, and into the metal body. Most droids are constructed so that they aren't as conductive as a metal creation should be. However, overloading delicate circuits and melting wires still works, it just takes a little more effort. It surprised me how easily the lighting came, how effortlessly I increased the amount of voltage running through the droid which began to spasm after several seconds, jerking and twitching before collapsing in a heap.

"Very efficient," Her Lordship approved, stalking over to the droid's husk to take out its memory core—memory cores are always the most seriously protected part of a droid. "And elegantly done."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Quinn," Her Lordship pulled him up on holo before synching the memory core to it. "I found this droid—is there anything in its memory core to verify that this was what I was looking for?"

" _Data stream received_ ," the Captain answered, his head bent down as he studied the readouts on his end. " _Confirmed. And no sign of any information indicating you were listed as a secondary or tertiary target._ "

Meaning that Baras didn't feel the need to take precautions.

"See what faith he has in you?" Her Lordship purred.

The Captain did not answer, possibly a remaining shred of decorum paid towards someone he once owed something to.

"Where am I headed now?"

" _Into the fray, I'm afraid. The best line of travel takes you right through the Imperial retreat—it's_ _become_ _an actual retreat_ ," he ended disgustedly.

"Nothing like a little public relations stunt. Are you game, Jaesa?"

"I was beginning to worry I wouldn't be sufficiently warmed up by the time we started finding Baras' flunkies in earnest," I answered primly, adjusting the fall of my robes—a needless gesture, a theatrical gesture.

"Very good," Her Lordship nodded. "Let's go put a little heart back in our troops."

I let her go first, following her brisk pace. If anyone can put the heart back into the troops it's her. She doesn't need to scare them witless to get them to push back.

 **Corellia, Part II**

The Captain actually diverted us halfway to the second most likely landing pad because the fourth-most-likely just experienced a flyby of an unregistered ship. Well, he said it was unregistered; the silhouette was that of a Republic stealth ship, so clearly he had Imperial air traffic control information tapped somehow.

We made such good time (or the assassin was just that slow to disembark) that we met him on the rooftop. He stopped and blinked at us.

Her Lordship cocked her head. The only reason she hadn't sailed into him the instant she had a line of attack on her target was because she was thinking. I knew she was thinking, through having studied her and her methodology, that it might be better to take him alive and hand him over to whatever stood in place of Imperial Intelligence. Even if he had nothing useful about Baras (I doubted he'd ever heard of the man even if he was doing Baras' dirty work), he might know other things. Useful things.

And with a Republic stealth ship, the possibility existed that he was SIS—especially if he had orders to kill a member of the Dark Council.

"Wow. So much for secret landings on secret landing pads," he observed, running a hand through his hair.

After months and months of hearing nothing but Imperial accents—and I'd begun to think I'd started picking one up myself—his words sounded odd, the 'r' in every word grinding, sounds coming from farther back in his throat than the way Her Lordship or the Captain would utter them. It was an accent that made the words seem oddly heavy.

I 'pinged' the man, then nodded. "That's him, my lord. He wants the Darth."

The man actually looked surprised to be called out in such a fashion, but he covered it as Her Lordship spoke.

"It appears this will be your secret graveyard." Her Lordship answered simply, indicating the area with an unignited lightsaber. It was one of her quirks, using the thing like a pointer or baton. The movements were always elegant, always graceful. They'd have seemed artificial if someone else did them, I think.

"That's hilarious. You're not billed as having a sense of humor." He said it to unnerve Her Lordship, or see if it unnerved her. It was a gross underestimation, either way.

"You get a Sith without a sense of humor and you'll find a k'lor'slug in a black robe."

Translation: something loathsome, violent, and temperamental with no redeeming qualities.

"Yeah, I get that. Goes for Jedi, too. You know, you're supposed to be dead. Baras thought so when I asked if I needed to watch out for you before I shuttled down. Make arrangements. That kind of thing."

…wow. Baras really does have moles in the Republic—the SIS, since that's what this fellow is. It's weird to think of a spy being corrupt. I mean… ugh. I underestimated Baras.

"I imagine by now he's tapped into the conversation?" Her Lordship asked.

"Let's see," the agent shrugged affably, reaching into his jacket and producing a holocom. "Someone wants to say hello, m'lord."

Baras' image twinkled into being.

"Surprise," Her Lordship beamed.

Baras remained still, but I had the impression it was because he had to work to control his rage. Now he knew. He knew it all.

"At a loss for words? My, my, that's a first."

" _I'm not at a loss for words,_ " Baras answered smoothly. " _I'm simply deciding whether I ought to bother reaching out to you._ "

"Enmity is no excuse for lack of courtesy," Her Lordship said sententiously (and in no way referring to herself). "I know how much you like to hear yourself talk."

I kept my eyes fixed on the SIS agent, who divided his attention equally between Her Lordship and me. His hand strayed slowly towards the detonators—I couldn't tell if they were sonic, thermal, or what—clipped on his belt.

" _Clearly your actions are those of ignorance. As wronged by me as you might feel, even you wouldn't intentionally defy the Emperor._ "

"Now that is rather rude," Her Lordship sliced into him. "And very hypocritical."

" _You are being deceived_."

"So says the master deceiver."

" _The organization directing you is_ _not_ _the Emperor's Hand._ "

Her Lordship grinned. "No one has mentioned who I was working for. An interesting conclusion to simply jump to, reclusive entities that they are."

There was the briefest hitch before Baras continued. That hitch might as well have been an actual acceptance of a misstep. " _You are a puppet of a sect the Emperor cast off. They seek his destruction._ "

"I might have a hint of concern if I hadn't met the previous Voice of the Emperor on Voss," Her Lordship said silkily. "There was no mistaking him. He sends his regards."

Baras was silent. Apparently he hadn't gotten word about that, yet. " _I will tear down everything you've ever_ _touched_ _,_ " Baras said softly.

I scowled, then _looked_ at him. My breath caught and I found myself squinting—using my gift via holo isn't the same as using it face-to-face.

 _He was dark, convoluted, organized and clever. But through all this, which was daunting and painted him as a much more tenacious enemy than I gave him credit for being, I perceived the truth, that_ _one_ _little secret that would unlock him._

I started to laugh, the sound interrupting Her Lordship. The snicker became a giggle, the giggle a laugh, the laugh a positive howl of mirth. The SIS agent actually started to look discomforted, hand straying away from the detonators.

"Jaesa, you are not a hyena," Her Lordship reprimanded gently, but indulgently. "Do share with the rest of the class."

"I'm so sorry, my lord. It's just… it's just that Baras…" I dissolved into giggles again the inched towards her, casting Baras a nasty look. Rising onto tiptoe I leaned towards her ear, putting up a hand to cover the motion of my mouth… and for dramatic effect. "He's strong in the Force, his potential is quite impressive… but that's just his _potential._ His ability to actually _draw_ on the Force is like draining a bathtub with a kitchen funnel. He can't use everything available or with any real efficiency. It's why he needs so many tools, why he's such a puppet master." I stepped away, addressing the assembly as a whole. "Without his tools he's a pile of plastiglass and cheap silver paint, covered in high-intensity lights, presenting the illusion of being a souped-up high-end speeder, all the while praying _desperately_ that no one will see through the subterfuge."

Dead silence.

"How am I doing, my lord?" I asked Baras softly.

The image blinked out.

"Damn," the SIS agent declared, sounding genuinely impressed. "Never heard the old man shut down before—especially not by some slip of a girl. You've got a mouth on you, no mistake."

"Be _very_ careful what you say next," I answered softly, "it may end in you losing your tongue before I kill you."

He laughed at this, waving negligently. "Little girl aren't my style. Still, gotta say…" he looked Her Lordship up and down. "Been an admirer of your work. Everything from basic foot soldiers to Imperial Moffs, super-Sith to Jedi masters. Good, good stuff."

"I can't actually take credit for the Moff," Her Lordship responded blandly.

"Still good stuff," the agent answered.

"Too bad you'll never see my memoirs."

"Yeah. Bet the really good stuff's not public knowledge." He looked her up and down. "Got a couple ideas on how to take you down. Be interesting to see which one of them works.

"Jaesa, step back, would you? You're drawing first blood all over the place today. I might get complacent at this rate."

I obediently backed away, placing myself before the only door leading off the roof as I preened myself over the compliment. It was true… if by saying 'blood' she includes 'droid fluids.' I certainly tore a big old chunk off of Baras, telling his most dangerous adversary his deepest, darkest secret.

The fight was short, to the point of being comical and making me wonder why Baras wasn't treating this more seriously. Or maybe Her Lordship really was that much better than the flunky.

Regardless, Her Lordship let him have a few seconds to feel like he might just have her figured… then she moved a hand and slammed him repeatedly into the side of the building. It was hilarious, if macabre. After all, most people think she's not particularly adept with that kind of tactic.

"Messy," I noted when she walked over to the edge of the roof, glanced at the body, then pitched it over the side, watching it fall and spatter on the pavement below.

"He was annoying. And presumptuous." She can be touchy about people claiming to know her when they'd never said two words to her (even then, two words don't really count). This fellow had two reasons for inspiring said touchiness: he was Baras' stooge (and knew it), but he was also from the Republic (stooge or not).

"He certainly was." She looked away from the ruined corpse, a tiny blot far below us, her orange eyes taking me in. "You've been exceeding my expectations today. I'm impressed."

A flush of pride made my face feel hot, and a swelling sensation filled my chest. "Thank you, my lord."

"Come. Lucky number three." With that, she pulled out her holocom. "Quinn, Baras knows. If he calls the ship, let him talk to the answering machine."

It wouldn't do for Baras to choke him out or something equally horrible. Baras threatened everything Her Lordship ever touched; that puts the Captain at the top of the list of things to tear down.

An unwise threat, on the whole.

" _Already? You're working at a good clip today._ "

Her Lordship gave him a wicked, burning look. "I _always_ operate at peak efficiency."

I felt myself blushing. Originally it was pleasure at actually exceeding expectation. This time… well. Sith rely on strong emotions as a power source and passion is definitely near the top of the list. Since it requires two to tango (as the Alderaanians say) he's now an integral part of helping her keep fighting fit.

I tried desperately not to notice if there were complimentary tones in that remark. I like the Captain, but I _really_ don't want to think about him that way.

" _I'm pleased to hear it,_ " came the innocent response.

I stifled a groan. Only those two could bring that kind of tension to a time and place like this.

" _Lord Khellin has arrived in-system. I've arranged a place for him and his men to touch down. They are awaiting further orders._ "

"Excellent. Any news on the third assassin?"

" _None as yet, but two of the landing strips—one you've visited and one you haven't—have been compromised by the fighting. As it stands, I'm still trying to find a lead for you._ "He sounded almost fretful, then anticipated her next question. " _The Hand has not been in contact about Darth Vowrawn's base of operations._ "

Her Lordship sighed heavily, pursing her lips. "So we're what? Wandering around the city?"

" _I'm afraid so, my lord. Unless you would prefer me to direct you to the temporary headquarters Imperial Armed Forces has established. Or one of the forward operating bases. If there's no point in keeping a low profile, there's no point in trying._ "

Her Lordship sighed again. "Put me on with the man in charge of this offensive. I shall want a report on the current conditions."

Meaning she needs to keep her schedule fluid in order to accommodate her objectives—however muddied and currently impossible they are—but doesn't want to waste time with unnecessary travel. Better to let her know where hotspots are and let her have her way with them.

 **Corellia, Part III**

"Jaesa? Jaesa, come back," Her Lordship called quietly.

I blinked, shaking myself out of meditation. It was almost dawn, if the chill-wet-nasty quality of the air was any indication, and there was still no sign of Darth Vowrawn or the missing assassin. The FOB at which we'd come to rest after midnight last night continued in its bustle of activity. The sounds of battle raging through the Corellian megalopolis had been so upsetting to my nerves I'd hidden in meditation, hoping to rest since actually sleeping wasn't an option.

I'd tried to find Baras' men, and come up with several impressions, but… but there was a blank spot that worried me. Like something knew I was looking for it and even as it let me know it was there—or couldn't keep me from knowing—it blanked itself out so I wouldn't know what it was.

Or who. I'd chased it for the better part of the night, trying to pin it down but had nothing to show for the pains I'd taken.

"Jaesa."

I opened my eyes then forced myself to my feet, yawning widely.

"The Hand found Darth Vowrawn. Servant Eleven says if she could find him, the missing assassin can."

I was fully awake and alert at these words, following her hurriedly as we headed for our speeder. "Where is he?" I asked, once we were underway.

"In Republic territory—apparently he's operating right under their noses."

"The last place anyone would think to look," I agreed.

"The Hand thinks he'll be difficult to talk around, so no lethal force. Or, rather, as little as possible."

"Well, you _were_ Baras' apprentice and he's a conniving creep." I was tired and more than a little fussy. It felt good to snarl about _something_. "A suspicious mind might think the schism between you is just for show." Like with her father.

"You grasp the likely interpretation Darth Vowrawn entertains."

"Any word on the assassin?"

"None. If we didn't catch him at his landing pad—whatever that turned out to be—we won't catch him without using Darth Vowrawn as bait."

"…my lord? Is it possible that this assassin might be watching _us_ to see where _we_ go? Let us do the looking and the hard work for him? Like a snowplow?"

"You're in top form this morning," Her Lordship approved. "I wonder if recent assignments and objectives have been neglecting some bent in your talents."

"You never know unless you try," I yawned widely. Somewhere, not close but too close for my tastes, a shell exploded. This time, I didn't flinch. I doubt I'll learn to sleep through the explosions, though. "You should know, I sensed someone from Baras. I don't know anything more—they knew I was looking for them and hid themselves well."

"He's probably got his new favored apprentice down here to keep a handle on things," Her Lordship answered. "Killing Vowrawn is too important to leave unattended."

And if these assassins fail, as two of the three have, Baras might have to be a little less circumspect in getting Vowrawn assassinated. That means using someone directly attached to him to make it happen and then killing all witnesses. _Especially_ now that he knows Her Lordship is present.

"Have you ever been to Corellia?" Her Lordship asked abruptly.

"Once or twice. I loved the food. The best of it is greasy, unhealthy, and fantastic. Too bad we're here in the middle of a war. I can't imagine any restaurants being open." I remember battered fish and fried potatoes; those strips of fried something covered in cinnamon, sugar, and drizzled in caramel and little candied pecans; and fried batter with powdered sugar dusted on it…

…I'm making myself hungry. Moreover, you don't eat that sort of thing in the field, especially if you're not used to the grease. It messes with your insides. That's a distraction one doesn't need and can't afford.

"You never know. Soldiers have to eat, why not open up once the general area settles?"

It would take a very pragmatic businessman. "All the same, I wouldn't recommend a big meal while we're working. Afterward though, if there's time… that would be lovely." Even if there isn't surely we can find time for takeout?

 **Corellia, Part IV**

Darth Vowrawn elected to hole up in a corporate building in the district called Incorporation Island. This area was fairly stable with regards to fighting, as well as being quite affluent; it meant that Her Lordship allowed me to practice the art of moving stealthily and doing so with a partner. Fighting our way through wasn't a problem in and of itself; the time it would take—both to get where we needed to be and to chase down Darth Vowrawn if he escaped, put to flight by the commotion we'd make—was.

The tower Darth Vowrawn picked out was imposing, massive, and probably had ninety ways for him to get out of it in a hurry.

We went in the front door to find the lobby full of Republic-looking Imperials. Their clothes were right, but something in their postures didn't say 'Republic.'

Her Lordship cocked her head as they scrambled to form a defensive line. None of them was Force sensitive. All of them looked like some monster out of legend had just walked in on them.

"S-Sith," one of the men spoke up. "Are you lost?" The heavy, grinding, spoken in the back of the mouth accent was even more disturbing because it was so obviously assumed and not by someone gifted with affectation. "You're in a Republic—"

"Your accent is poking through," Her Lordship announced, with all the aplomb of a brick through a window.

"Well, never-mind-that," the Imperial tried again, only succeeding in coming off more poorly artificial than before. "A Sith comes in here, he's gonna meet resis—"

"You're grating on my nerves. _Don't_ spoil my sunny disposition." She caught my eye and tipped her chin at the Imperials.

No lethal force. I remember.

"Sorry, just can't do that—" the Imperial choked as Her Lordship raised a hand.

I deflected several blaster bolts, all of them ricocheting to strike in non-lethal places (somewhat to my surprise). Her Lordship, with her usual tactic, leapt into the midst of the soldiers after flinging their leader into their ranks. Her lightsaber left ugly burns, but no one lost any limbs.

She rolled her shoulders as she stepped over moaning, shuddering heaps. "Just lie there and twitch," she declared as she found the stairs leading up and began to ascend them.

"Don't be stupid," I warned as I followed her. It was clear, though, that she'd inflicted enough damage to keep them from doing something stupid, like trying to follow us. "They're truly loyal to the Darth, you know," I noted.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes. Not to the point of being suicidal, but they definitely would have made you kill them all." And, since we're all on the same side (even if they don't appreciate that) it would be a waste of resources.

"What does that tell you?"

"He knows how to leverage loyalty and he's open-minded, to some extent, about the usefulness of non-Sensitives."

"That was my impression. You might as well know, his reputation portrays him as something of a genial fop. Don't let it fool you: one doesn't sit on the Dark Council for very long unless one can hold onto one's place."

The warning wasn't necessary—I'd never take a fellow Sith at face value—but I appreciated it nonetheless. It wouldn't do to embarrass Her Lordship in any way I could prevent. Especially when she's got to make certain impressions, as well as good ones.

 **Corellia, Part V**

Her Lordship stopped, frowning at the door. The building's stairwell system involved several flights up, then crossed a lobby-room to get to the next set of flights, back and forth. It wasn't a particularly efficient system, so I put it down to a security reason: no sneaking all the way up the building unobserved (as if anyone would ever want to—stars, it was tall when you had to take the stairs!).

The second or third time we came to a switch—I lost count, trying to ignore the ache in my legs and lungs—a presence waited for us just beyond the door. Malevolent and brooding, I wasn't sure nonlethal force would be an option. The entity on the other side was angry, disgusted, resentful. Not afraid, but certainly keyed-up.

And strong. Not as strong as Her Lordship, but there was only one way out of this stairwell and that meant we'd be funneled right into whatever the Sith decided to throw at us.

Her Lordship ignited a lightsaber, then nodded to the door. "Open it for me."

I moved to do so. At her second nod, I wrenched the door open and she passed through uninhibited to meet an arcing net of purple lighting with her lightsaber. After a few moments, she threw it off. When I finally got past the heavy door, I found her and a Zabrak Sith regarding one another. He certainly looked kill-ready, disinclined to listen to anything Her Lordship had to say.

Her Lordship pointed with her lightsaber. "Save us a great deal of trouble. Get your master down here, now."

The Zabrak flicked his eyes at me, then back to her and shook his head. "Don't worry. He'll come soon enough. He'll want to survey your corpse."

"We're fighting the same war, so I'll be sporting," Her Lordship said darkly. "Killing your master is exceedingly low on my list of priorities."

"Waste your breath as you like. Baras is not as subtle as he thinks, and you have been seen through," the Zabrak responded. There was something almost… mushy… in the way he spoke. Trying to pick out emotional cues from his tone alone was like… wading through quicksand.

I pivoted, just fast enough to catch the blow that would have sheared my head from my body. It all happened before I consciously recognized that I'd felt a ripple in the Force warning me of danger. Recognition and reaction had come so quickly, like instinct or as though preprogrammed. "Surprise." The word was out of my mouth before I knew I was going to say it.

The human Sith disengaged from the blocked blow only to have me push forward, forcing her back. It was clear that whatever skill she had, it was halved or more if she didn't have the element of surprise. Meanwhile, I'd been training religiously with one of the best hands with the lightsaber in the Empire—or so I felt. I actually finished my fight before Her Lordship finished hers… though this wasn't really proof of ability on my part.

I was learning to be sneaky and stealthy; unlike my opponent though, I didn't rely on it as a core tactic.


	50. Chapter 50

**Corellia, Part VI**

My legs hurt. I was sweaty. I felt dizzy from so many stairs and if I could have had the building's engineer in front of me I'd have kicked him down every single one of those blasted steps.

Predictably, we'd had to slog our way up to the penthouse at the top of the building. Part of me worried we'd be in no condition to fight when we got there. I knew, before we opened and went through the door, that we'd caught up with Darth Vowrawn. It wasn't so much that I sensed a big, dark power—although there were several—so much as I sensed something a little too small, something trying to… duck below… Sith senses.

The room held three Sith—none of whom was the hiding presence—all formidable, capable looking men. Determination and rage burned in them like forest fires, a durasteel-strong determination that she could have their master only when they stepped over the last dead body.

"Please tell Darth Vowrawn he has a visitor," Her Lordship commanded.

"There's nothing here for you, scum," the Sith at the fore—a man with a hairstyle that made me think of a road on a smooth hill—snarled, igniting his lightsaber. His fellows followed suit. "Even you can't manage the three of us at once."

Don't be so sure.

"He's already here, master," I announced, feeling the hiding presence move. "Here and listening. There." I gestured to the balcony bordering the second floor. After a few tense moments, a soft footstep sounded on the stairs.

The Sith immediately feel back, blocking the entrance with their bodies, bristling as they tried to figure a solution to the red-headed problem before them.

"Oh, _do_ stand down, Lord Qet," a weary voice declared.

"By, my lord—"

"I _said_ stand down," the weary voice repeated.

Lightsabers turned off, but the death glares of the three Sith didn't decrease by so much as a fraction. Qet didn't give up so easily, however. "My lord, you _must_ retreat into the shad—"

Darth Vowrawn, for I felt certain it was him and not some kind of double, gave a huff of impatience and elbowed his way past Qet—literally, since the Sith shuffled forward several paces so his master could almost _squeeze_ through the wall of bodyguards. "There could be a _dozen_ of you, and it wouldn't matter. You would fail just the same," came the by-now waspish remark.

Vowrawn was a short man, lean but starting to grow soft around the middle. A Pureblood, his red complexion was dark, trending towards purple. Dark hair, a little disheveled as if he wasn't concerned with vanity or looks (or had run his hands through it too many times), capped a long face with more than a few fleshy tendrils hanging or protruding from it. It was hard to tell whether his gold and silver facial jewelry—a common style for Purebloods—was mounted directly to his face or held securely with body glue. His robes were quite simple, mostly obscuring the armor that made the fall of cloth buckle and bulge here and there.

"Go," Vowrawn commanded.

"But, my lor—" Qet protested. For a moment, I thought he might actually bonk Vowrawn on the head and make off with his unconscious master for some place of safety. The mental image was hilarious.

"I honestly don't care whether they stay or go," Her Lordship announced, Qet's protest half overriding her remark.

" _Go_." This time there was a snap in his voice as he regarded Her Lordship, me, then Her Lordship again, eyes hooded in thought. "I will not say it again." He didn't raise his voice; rather, he lowered it. It brooked no argument whatever.

Still looking as though desperate action might be preferable to following orders, Qet bowed stiffly, reluctantly, then led his men out the door through which we came, giving Her Lordship murderous looks. I don't doubt that, if anything happened to Vowrawn, we'd have to fight them to get out.

"Such good boys," Vowrawn observed once the door closed, his voice returned to normal pitch. "So loyal. So talented."

I can't speak for the latter, but they _are_ loyal.

"Killing them would be _such_ a waste."

Heheh. 'Waste.' 'Killing.' I wonder if he did that on purpose.

Her Lordship opened her mouth, but Vowrawn ran over whatever she meant to say. "You've done well, all things considered. Your master is quite the player of the game." Beneath the almost jolly, certainly upbeat tone, lay a hint of calculation, as if he wasn't half as resigned as he gave the impression of being, as if he thought he could still salvage the situation. As if he just didn't want his talented boys underfoot.

Too bad Baras doesn't have more than playing the game going for him—like being able to play it _himself_.

I meandered over to the penthouse windows and drew back the curtains, aware that my progress was observed with attention to detail. The sky looked sullen, full of smoke and particulate matter, which scattered the light in ominous ways. Now that we were still, I began to feel my weariness in earnest.

Damn those stairs. If I have my way, I'll never bother with stairs ever again. Someone will just have to carry me.

Another amusing image.

"I'm not here on Baras' account," Her Lordship announced flatly.

Vowrawn chuckled, the sound containing a bitter edge. "No need to take the trouble to lie. All I ask is to be spared the indignity of decapitation."

Silence.

More silence, and this time Vowrawn narrowed his eyes speculatively. "Interesting," he mused softly.

Her Lordship's arms were crossed, even if she maintained her ability to spring into action. Finally, "I was wondering if you would notice my lack of hostile intent. Darth Ekkage's assassins did. Surely a member of the Dark Council would be much more astute in his observations."

"One cannot be too careful with Darth Baras," Vowrawn observed.

"I know. It's why I've been tasked to remove him from the galaxy." This time, she bowed as she spoke, a definite inclination of the head but no more. I hastily followed suit. "The Emperor's Hand has tasked me to ensure your safety, the better to ruin Baras' bid for power. I am Lord Hellanix Balanchine-Renault—the Emperor's Wrath."

"I know the Emperor's Wrath—or knew him." Vowrawn studied Her Lordship. "Ah, there," he breathed, his eyes lighting up as though spotting something ellusive. Maybe the Emperor left a mark on her for other Sith to perceive, to act as a letter of reference so her claim would stand up to the argument that she'd replaced the last fellow to hold the post. "Well. Things have grown interesting!" His whole manner began to brighten.

"Too interesting. We've removed two of the three assassins we know about. The last is still lurking somewhere," Her Lordship answered.

"Three for little old me?" Vowrawn chuckled. "I _am_ honored."

I looked away from the window. The Darth put me in mind of an Aleraanian noble I'd known. A fat, round-faced man with a jolly voice and foppish manners… and the heart of a killer. He was 'known' to be involved with blackmail rackets, but no one could ever prove anything. I remember him smarming up to Gesselle who, more often than not, looked like she wanted to punch him.

Vowrawn had a similar tone and manner. He was also a member of the Dark Council. You don't get a seat unless you're a killer, and an adept one at that. And Vowrawn's been there awhile, if what I understand is correct.

"Don't be," Her Lordship murmured, looking significantly at me.

I nodded my agreement. "This has been too easy. Even I could have handled those two—by myself and at once."

"Permit me to introduce my apprentice, Jaesa," Her Lordship announced to the curious-looking Vowrawn.

I bowed politely. "My lord."

Vowrawn nodded, studying me with new and frank curiosity.

"Extrapolate," Her Lordship commanded.

This was a learning trip with a vengeance. Then again, I've been learning for months, following for months. "We know Baras has another assassin on-world, but I don't believe that assassin is the… blank spot… I've been picking up. It seems to me, therefore, that all these three assassins are meant to do is shake up Vowrawn and his retainers, to trick them into a false sense of complacency once they've been dealt with. Three assassins, all dead? Surely it would mean a chance in tactics. Then, this fourth assassin—the real assassin, if you will—arrives some dark night and slits His Lordship's throat.

"The problem which I see is that none of these assassins have the hallmarks of stealth. Oh, the SIS fool and the droid would probably prefer a ranged shot, but all the windows here are scrupulously covered." I indicated the heavy draperies. "And unless I'm much mistaken, His Lordship doesn't leave this building or, in all likelihood, this suite for anything." I might have thought there were ninety way out of this building but after climbing all those stairs, I revised my opinion.

By now, Vowrawn had found a chair to settle in it, looking quite at his ease and brightly interested.

Her Lordship nodded.

"So I expect this next assassin to make an attempt when we try to move the Darth—unless he comes crashing through the window, knowing approximately where His Lordship is…" I was going to say 'holed up' but it sounded a little too much like 'hiding' and Sith can be touchy. "…maintaining his headquarters."

"Oh, that was a _lovely_ save," Vowrawn observed, bringing his hands together with a single soft clap of approval. "Permit me to compliment you, my lord. One doesn't see clever apprentices with such lovely manners very often."

When he said 'manners' I interpreted it as being both definitions—my manner of presentation and my manners as in courtesy.

"Jaesa is a credit to me," Her Lordship agreed.

And immune to this Darth's flattery, though there was no need to air that opinion.

"So, apprentice, how would you go about thwarting this assassin?" Vowrawn asked, sounding like a guest instructor testing a student's understanding.

I reached out to Her Lordship, unsure if I ought to answer him, received an impression nudging me along, then walked over to the windows and peeked out. "Ideally, I'd say have the Captain bring the _Astral Blight_ , land it nearby, and we'll make our way there as quickly as possible. Then secure Darth Vowrawn on the _Blight_ , after which we can lift him off-world—"

"Stop right there," the Darth broke in mildly, prompting me to turn. He'd raised a forestalling finger, and abandoned his chair. "I am not going off-world just yet. I have work here to finish which is directly pertinent to our communal problem."

"Very well. Securing you on the _Blight_ remains necessary, regardless of whether or not we leave. Leaving is simply the best option," I answered.

"I'm not sure even Quinn could get the _Blight_ here. That means ground travel," Her Lordship broke in. "He doesn't fly like a smuggler."

I'd been afraid of that. "Traversing war torn streets on foot or by speeder? The best we could hope for, in that case, is to spring the trap ourselves."

It was the sound of an engine where, previously, there was none.

All three of us, Vowawn, Her Lordship, and I, jumped towards the nearest wall as a vehicle plowed through the windows and wall, peppering us with glass (or would have, if we hadn't anticipated it) dust, and bits of duracrete, tearing the drapes off their fastenings. The vehicle struck the opposite wall as a figure on a speeder followed it, jumping free of the speeder which crashed into the car with a screech of metal on metal and explosions of fuel cells.

What had happened, as best I could piece it together, was that the assassin positioned the car to make him an entrance—probably locking the steering and launching it (so to speak) from a building across the way. He then followed from the same building using the speeder, a vehicle which was never meant to be so high off the ground and would drop even if it maintained momentum, the cross the gap. No need, as we had, to traverse the stairs or risk the elevators of this particular building and run the gauntlet of Vowrawn's security.

Unfortunately for him, he had no idea how many Sith he actually had to face. He knew about Vowrawn, he knew about Her Lordship and me, but he had no idea whether we'd obliterated the Darth's guardian forces—he probably assumed we had.

For all intents and purposes, they remained out of play. I wasn't sorry: crowded rooms make for poor repulsions of an attack.

Qet and his men were back in the room in a trice. If the suite hadn't been so roomy, there would have been far too many people in it at this point. Qet wasted no time: he reached out through the Force and jerked Vowrawn towards him, shunting the Darth behind him while his two fellows closed ranks and maneuvered so they blocked the Darth in a corner.

"Oh, really!" Darth sputtered indignantly, as if he felt himself quite up to handling an assassin and there was no need for manhandling.

Several of us reached out, as the assassin leapt free of the speeder, catching him in crushing grips. Her Lordship, as soon as she had an angle of attack—which took less time than it took Qet to secure Vowrawn—sprang at the assassin and took his head off in one clean swipe.

"Three," she said. "And the best is yet to come."

By now, with the settling of the dust and debris, most of the black robes in the room were streaked strangely with grey. "Are you hurt, my lord?" Qet asked Vowrawn, still eyeing Her Lordship askance.

"No, but I should like to _breathe_ at the very least," Vowrawn complained, giving his men various shoves until they spread out a little. "Really, you three. I _can_ look after myself."

It must normal, for none of the three Sith seemed to attach much importance to the fussing as Vowrawn straightened his robes. Such dedication. Perhaps that's another hallmark of the best Sith: inspiring dedication and devotion in their highest tier of supporters, such that something like trust (as close as one can find in such an untrusting order as that of the Sith) is established.

"We're moving your master to my ship," Her Lordship said to Qet, her tone brooking absolutely no argument of any kind. "He'll be secure there. My crew will see to him."

Qet, scowling nodded. I had to wonder if he, like I sometimes did, reached out to check with his master with no one being the wiser about the contact. "Tell me about this crew."

"I have an Imperial officer—"

Qet's nose wrinkled.

"—a homicidal Talz—"

Qet's men exchanged dubious locks.

"—and a chirpy Twi'lek."

"That does sound like the beginning of a joke, my lord Wrath," Vowrawn chuckled.

"And _I_ am not inclined to trust my lord's life to a _joke_ ," Qet growled. "Especially one offered by such as yourself." Clearly he still wasn't inclined to accept that the only Darth whose blood Her Lordship was after was Baras'.

" _Down_ boy," Her Lordship said so coldly that Qet immediately took a half step back, stepping on Vowrawn who elbowed him out of the way. Cutting winds on Hoth's frozen plains are warmer than her tone was. "I also have a bevy of assassins under the leadership of one Lord Khellin."

"Really?" Vowrawn asked, arching his eyebrows… uh, eyebrow ridges…

"Ekkage's stooge?" Qet asked.

One of Qet's men looked startled, as if this meant something in particular to him. I didn't feel anything through the Force, his control over his emotions was good, but the expression on his face was that of hope. Apparently he knew one or more of the late Ekkage's former assassins.

" _My_ stooge, I think you'll find, after having liberated him both from confinement and his former mistress," Her Lordship responded acidly. "I shall take it personally, Lord Qet, if you make any further suggestions that I do not take the Emperor's work seriously."

Nobody wants that.

"Ah, yes, you weren't there for the formal introduction," Vowrawn broke in, patting Qet's arm. "Lord Qet, permit me to introduce the Emperor's newly-appointed Wrath. She's _much_ more charming that Scourge _ever_ was."

"That would not be _difficult_ , my lord," Qet answered sourly… but there was a new wariness that had nothing to do with concern about Baras.

Personally, I found myself intensely curious about Her Lordship's predecessor, 'Scourge' apparently, which _had_ to be a professional name.

Her Lordship pulled out her holocom and queued it. "Quinn."

" _My lord?_ " The Captain looked relieved.

" _What is it?_ "

" _Reports—and Darth Baras keeps trying to holo. Vette's been keeping his forced transmissions from getting through. I also suspect she's tampered with the prompt for the answering protocols. She was giggling most unnervingly after the last one._ " And, for once, he sounded like he approved.

"I hope he blows a gasket. Something to keep him occupied while we finish up here," Her Lordship responded dryly.

" _General Rakton left you a message—I think the Lieutenant's operation has begun. He gave no details, only said he was giving you a courtesy notice._ "

"That was fast."

"I'll bet Pierce and his men rendezvous halfway between Vaiken and here, whatever Rakton wanted," I put in softly. "No sense wasting time."

Her Lordship nodded agreement.

" _I assume the Lieutenant will holo you himself, once he's let Rakton know the matter is closed._ "

"Excellent. We've secured Darth Vowrawn and are ready to bring him to the Blight. In the meantime, see whether you can find record of any vessel with Baras' personal clearances touching down on Corellia. Our so-called assassins were not of the quality required to kill the Darth. Therefore, someone on this planet is."

" _I'm on top of it. Is there anything else, my lord?_ "

"Have Lord Khellin and his men make their way to the hangar bay. I won't leave Darth Vowrawn as scantily protected as he is." She could have said 'unprotected' but needling Qet didn't seem to be on her list of priorities. It's doubtful anyone missed the absence of the slight; not that it will raise her very much in Qet's eyes. I have to admit, in his position I'd probably be suspicious and untrusting to the last degree, too. Better safe than oh so sorry. "I suspect there's much yet to be done. And have Tuvi prepare the apprentice's quarters to receive Darth Vowrawn."

Looks like Pierce is rejoining us in the dormitory.

" _Yes, my lord._ "

Her Lordship severed the call. "Let's get moving."

 **Corellia, Part VII**

Darth Vowrawn did sober up in his manner while we traversed the city. Her Lordship insisted we do it on foot—easier to defend ourselves and a crash on foot was less devastating than a crash on speeders—moving from one Imperial FOB to another.

Lord Qet didn't like it, but Her Lordship didn't really care, and Vowrawn always seemed ready to soothe his guardian into compliance. I actually spent most of the trip walking beside Vowrawn so Qet—whom Vowrawn assured Her Lordship was eminently capable, whatever opinion she might have formed to the contrary as a result of his own insistence that Qet not cross her—could work with less division of his attention.

I had the feeling the Darth was trying to use me to answer questions he didn't want to put to anyone overtly, so I did my best to keep conversation light and inconsequential. Whether I succeeded in avoiding dropping the information he wanted or not, Vowrawn maintained he—old man that he was—was _quite_ happy to be led about by such a charming young apprentice. He even go this eyes to twinkle indulgently.

Her Lordship was right: he presented the face of a fop, and it was a perfect 'mask of flesh' as I like to call it. I might have been less cautious around him without Her Lordship's warning that behind the mask was one of the most powerful, influential men in the Empire. A man who'd held his post securely for _decades_.

So Vowrawn and I chatted about the weather, arts and culture, the state of Dromund Kaas, my impressions of Korriban, what I knew about Corellia—he seemed as interested in sampling the cuisine as I was—and that sort of thing. It was the kind of conversation I might have expected from a party, such as the one Magdalena threw for Her Lordship.

At the very least, the murmur of conversation broke up the otherwise nerve-fraying sounds of battle moving to and fro.

 **Corellia, Part VIII**

Lord Khellin and his men arrived before we did—which they should have done. Khellin had, however, sent half of them out into the city. The Captain turned up several ships with Baras' 'fingerprints' on them and Khellin sent his own men neutralize them. He wasn't taking any risks.

In fact, upon arriving in the _Astral_ _Blight's_ hangar, Khellin was the only one of them visible—and the only one I could perceive. Anyone else was perfectly invisible.

"My lord Wrath," Khellin took a knee. "Darth Vowrawn."

Vowrawn simply nodded acknowledgment of the greeting.

"Report," Her Lordship commanded.

"Three of my men have eliminated their targets. Two have gone silent. At least one of those two is dead."

That means he's down to seven—six if we're unlucky—men, excluding himself.

Her Lordship nodded for me to take Vowrawn up into the _Blight_. Once we were all inside, she resumed, "We think the assassins Baras sent were merely distractions. We think there's at least one more, and/or possibly whatever apprentice he's favoring just now."

Khellin sighed, produced his holo, and turned it on, displaying what was evidently playback. The footage cut in with the agonized movements of the man struggling to get the device out and working. Someone abruptly dragged him to his feet, the device giving us an unpleasant look at the attacker's groin. From the gagging sounds, it was clear the attacker was manually strangling his victim. The device fell to the ground, rolling some distance away. A nasty crack. A nastier thud. Feet approached, the dull thud suggesting bulk.

Khellin paused the footage as if he'd been practicing for the express purpose of showing Her Lordship. The face the holocom recorded—which was probably the last thing the device saw—was a tortured, ruined face, heavily implanted with cybernetics until it almost looked like the flesh was the augmentation.

My guts tightened, coiling unpleasantly. Even mangled in that fashion, there was no mistaking him.

"Lord Draahg," Her Lordship said softly.

"He's dead," I breathed, feeling sweat break out on my forehead. "You-you killed him."

"Apparently not well enough," Her Lordship responded neutrally.

It was only because we were linked that I could sense, beyond the 'door' between us the anger, the rage… a little confusion… but also a wild joy. He'd hurt the Captain. He'd hurt me, and Vette. Now, she had the opportunity to hurt Draahg right back. Break him by inches. See how long he could scream before his vocal cords ruptured.

It was a cold comfort for me, memory of that handsome face and the pain it wrought echoing in my mind.

The Captain, of course, was present—silent and proper—when everyone boarded the ship. He looked utterly impassive as he regarded the holo of Draahg's ruined face.

"Apparently burning alive isn't as permanent as some people think," Her Lordship declared flatly.

It shocked me, for a moment, that no one seemed surprised to learn there was a man she set out to kill and hadn't succeeded. Then, I realized, no one had a perfect percentage for kills. If this was the first man she meant to kill and failed in doing so… then there was still reason to be impressed.

"Draahg's presence here is likely twofold: killing the both of us," Vowrawn said, taking the holocom from Khellin's hand and examining it. "Goodness, he's not nearly as good-looking as he used to be. Burned alive, you said?" I had the impression that his 'twofold' reason included killing him and Her Lordship as a single item—the other one remained unspoken.

Her Lordship nodded.

"Beauty is only skin deep," I growled, "but ugly goes clear to the bone. He hasn't changed a bit."

He dropped a mountain on her. She left him to burn alive. Apparently there's something to using a lightsaber when you have to kill someone. Anything else allows too much of a chance for them to live. And for Draahg… a vibroblade.

…I always thought it curious she'd left him to just burn like that. However… oh. I bit my lip. Draahg dragged me and the Captain out of the ship, left us where we'd be the first things Her Lordship saw. Of course she'd want to be done with him quickly, make sure everyone was still alive, still save-able.

It won't happen again. I won't let it. My jaw began to hurt, I clenched my teeth so tightly.

I was wakened to the fact that I'd made my comment about beauty and ugliness out loud when Vowrawn laughed approvingly. Even Qet and Khellin looked grimly amused. "Too true! You've a sharp tongue to go with those sharp wits, my dear, and no mistake! Keep those. They'll serve you well in life."

I nodded politely accepting the remark.

"Khellin. I put security into your hands," Her Lordship announced.

In Basic: if Draahg so much as _scratches_ any of her retinue, or Vowrawn, she'll skin him alive.

"I'll make sure of it, my lord," Khellin said unpertubedly, before drawing aside to relay orders to his men, which he did in a low tone. They melted out of invisibility. Qet and his men started, as I did, but the Darth and Her Lordship didn't.

I suspect Khellin's used to a much nastier style of issuing instructions. There was something so calm, almost complacent in his acceptance and discharge of them.

"Darth Vowrawn, this is Captain Quinn. He manages the ship in my absence."

The Captain bowed deeply, remaining respectfully silent. It made me wonder whether he'd be sleeping in the quarters he shared with Her Lordship or if he was on the metaphorical couch while Vowrawn and his men were here.

Having had to look at Draahg's ugly face, however, I didn't wonder long. She'd want him close. No one who didn't know there was more than a normal Sith liaison would expect one. Knowing she cared, really cared, was like having a guilty conscience.

"Jaesa, wake Vette and Broonmark. I wish them to present themselves."

I bowed and hurried away, waking Vette first—she's not a graceful waker—then Broonmark.

 **Corellia, Part IX**

Breakfast was something to delight Tuvi's power supply and circuit boards: he had so many people to prepare the meal for and apparently was to make a good impression. Lord Khellin was absent, having left the night before, while Her Lordship issued instructions to Vette and Broonmark about how things were going to proceed.

Lord Qet remained unimpressed with Her Lordship's crew—especially, I think, because Vette's snoring the night before was far too loud and too obnoxious to be real. He must have said something to annoy her. Goodness knew she annoyed the rest of us until I snapped at her about how much work _some of us_ did during the course of the day and how much work _some of us_ would be doing the next.

I think Vette felt displaced with regards to field work: she was traded out for the Captain when he arrived. Poor girl is near the bottom of the list for field operations, even if Her Lordship finds ways to keep her busy. Still, she's kind enough not to make us all suffer after having had it brought to her attention by someone who matters. If Qet complained, she'd probably hook herself up to a microphone.

Qet's men didn't seem to care one way or the other about the crew. At the very least—so my impression ran—they felt Vette, Broonmark and the Captain would function as acceptable meatshields while they removed their lord to safety.

Her Lordship and Vowrawn barely exchanged 'good morning' and sat down at the table before he came around to business. "Now that we're all well-rested. Baras, as we all know, is _not_ the Voice of the Emperor. The reason support of his bid for this role is so strong is not because so very many people believe it but because there is a marked lack of resistance to the idea."

"Darth Marr wouldn't go along with it," Her Lordship noted. "He'd need more than just Baras' word for it."

"He doesn't. But Marr is still only one person, however formidable he might be. And I'm only one. Which leaves us at a disadvantage. The best way to disrupt him is to increase the voice of resistance—and that means removing two of Baras' top agents, both of whom are on Corellia. One of these agents—the easiest to get to—handles…" Vowrawn twirled his fingers dexterously, " _sensitive_ information… which Baras uses to leverage support."

"Blackmail? He's actually _blackmailing_ members of the Dark Council?" Her Lordship asked, her tea stopping halfway to her mouth.

"Audaciously and, even more amazing, effectively," Vowrawn agreed.

"That man." It was hard to tell if she felt scathingly towards him or admired the ability that permitted Baras to blackmail members of the Dark Council _and_ survive to keep doing it.

The idea that there were things Sith would rather bow to someone than have exposed nearly blew my mind. Sith tend to be an unapologetic lot, and those with power can silence any criticism of their personal habits or choices.

"Has lived _way_ too long," Vette whispered to me.

There wasn't enough room at table for everyone. Vowrawn, Qet, and Her Lordship sat at it. I'd opted to eat sitting with Vette somewhat apart, listening and thinking, but separate from the actual strategizing.

Qet's two men sat in a huddle of their own, facing us, flanking the doorway leading to the airlock.

The Captain stood at Her Lordship's shoulder, caf in hand. Although not taking part in breakfast, I knew he'd eaten before the rest of us, so he could devote full attention to Her Lordship's interests.

"Baras' chief intelligence operative is a man named Senks—Colonel Senks," Vowrawn continued.

Her Lordship looked to the Captain, who mutely shook his head. I suppose he can't know everyone.

"Colonel Senks is, officially, a member of the Corellian Resistance. He has a unique gift for slithering out of danger. His stronghold—the one my last agent flushed him out of—turned out to be a labyrinth of traps. We've found his new location, but owing to the need of treating the assault carefully… he's still in there." Vowrawn sipped his caf.

"Captain. Gear up for the field, I'll want your eyes on this."

"Yes, my lord." He didn't leave immediately, not mistaking her order for a dismissal.

"I take it you have, at the very, least a preliminary assessment?" she asked.

"I do, my lord. Unless you successfully scramble Senks' security measures, he'll be out of there before you can reach him. A few small explosive charges should take care of the problem, but only if they're properly placed. I'm unable to extrapolate further without knowing what sort of building we'd be dealing with."

"Do we have these charges in the armory?"

"Some. I can improvise a few more, and recommend doing so."

Vowrawn, although he remained behind his cup, studied the exchange shrewdly.

"Momentarily, Captain," Her Lordship prompted. "Jaesa? You'll remain here in his absence."

"Yes, my lord," I answered, trying not to feel uncomfortable. The last time Her Lordship left me behind to handle things, Draahg rolled over us like… like…

Well. He rolled over us.

And he's on this planet, now.

And he'll be wanting to destroy Vowrawn. Which means he'll likely be here when Her Lordship isn't.

I clenched my teeth and my fists, fingernails biting into my palms. Beside me, Vette's sky blue skin turned pasty periwinkle. The idea of facing him again scared me—terrified, even. That we were augmented by Qet, his two men, and Vowrawn himself (who couldn't possibly be as helpless as Qet's behavior might suggest), plus Khellin's men outside…

I still felt woefully unprepared. I shouldn't. I _knew_ I shouldn't. But I'd never been that badly hurt, and Draahg made clear that taking me down was all too easy. He'd made me helpless.

Gritting my teeth even harder, I forced the fear down. It wouldn't help me. Anger would, though. And anger could be distilled from fear.

"If I may, before you leave, Captain, I should like to organize contingencies, in case the _Astral Blight_ is compromised." To my relief, there was nothing in my voice to suggest my internal conflict.

"I've anticipated the necessity, my lord," the Captain answered, turning so he could regard me. "Both an off-world evacuation and an on-planet fallback. The former is logged in the navicomputer pending confirmation—it's only enough to put you in orbit, you understand," he continued, when it looked like Vowrawn might protest. "The second is—"

"A safehouse in the Imperial legislature," Vowrawn interrupted, raising one finger.

The Captain's brow wrinkled. "With all due respect, my lord, Darth Baras is _most_ adept at finding such things."

"And I _won't_ have him flattening major military outposts to get to me," the Darth responded dryly. "I can fight a war or manage our operations on the run as effectively as I can from a base of operations. It simply takes a little more effort."

"As you wish, my lord." There wasn't much else he could say.

"You mentioned two agents," Her Lordship broke in. "Senks is one."

"Yes, the other is a Jedi Master—or masquerading as one," Vowrawn continued. "He—or she, I suppose—is used to attack the assets of Sith who won't bend to blackmail. Compromise their power base and…" he shrugged suggestively.

"Is there anything else I should know?"

"Directly pertinent to this matter? No. But there is a young Sith running around, flattening everything that looks at her wrong. I believe she's after Thanaton, but I could be mistaken. My sources say she's rather, er… _erratic_. Lighting gone to her brain, perhaps." Vowrawn tapped his temple and indicated 'crazy.'

"Red Twi'lek, short, dresses like a Hutt's dancer?" Her Lordship asked.

"Oh, you know her?"

"We… worked together once," Her Lordship answered delicately. "Kallig, I believe she called herself."

Vette snorted, then pantomimed 'crazy' to me.

I nodded, remembering Vette's account of her.

Vowrawn cocked his head. " _If_ she was after Thanaton… what do you think the odds are?"

"I'm not placing a bet with you, if that's what you're asking," Her Lordship smiled.

"I would _never_ presume to gamble on the life of a fellow Dark Council member!" Vowrawn answered so assuredly that everyone—with the exception of the Captain—grinned to some degree. He accented the tone by placing a hand on his heart as if assuring her of sincerity.

"It depends on what kind of day she's having. Or how she's been threatened. She's powerful, but unstable," Her Lordship offered. Clearly, it was a matter of indifference to her.

"Another of _those_ ," Vowrawn sighed, shaking his head. I assumed he meant Darth Zhorrid. She's supposed to be pretty unstable. "At least they burn out quickly. Don't have enough time to cause true catastrophes."

"We can only hope," Her Lordship agreed. "If everything has been arranged to your satisfaction?"

"Oh, yes. It seems to me silly to try forming anything more concrete than we have now."

"Captain, there's no time like the present." Her Lordship pushed away from the table, nodded courteously at Darth Vowrawn. "Jaesa, come fill my place, if you would."

I got up, bringing my plate with me. Tuvi had her place cleared by the time I got there.


	51. Chapter 51

**Corellia, Part X**

Keeping occupied while Her Lordship and the Captain were out proved an easy task—well, it wasn't hard to find something to _do_. Waiting is never easy, and we had threat of Lord Draahg hanging over us. Lord Qet's overprotectiveness of his master left me disinclined to expect anything useful from Darth Vowrawn in a fight, though part of me knew he had to be of some use. He carried a lightsaber, and you don't get to his age without being able to use it.

As for Qet and his men, well. Vowrawn figured three against Her Lordship still wouldn't be winning odds.

Draahg already flattened me once—precedent set.

And we were in a confined space. Again. The best solution I could find was that if Draahg tried again here what he did on Hoth—that is, tear the airlock apart—then I should bundle Vowrawn and his men into an escape pod and hit the release mechanism. The force with which the pod would be ejected was more than enough to punch through a wall, or even several. It would give them a head start from which to run. If I launched them all, since I hoped to load them before he got through the airlock, he'd have to figure out where the rabbits he wanted were.

I might be dead meat, but a plan was a plan. I didn't say it was a fantastic one for everybody involved.

So to keep ourselves occupied, since all four visiting Sith played Gambit, we played Gambit, snickering about the irony of Sith standing around, playing a galaxy domination game while the war to actually do it was on.

It's that Sith needing a sense of humor thing. And an appreciation for irony.

It said something about Vowrawn that his men played for keeps, even against him. He was probably of Her Lordship's school—if she couldn't win it, she didn't want it given to her (that one time with the Captain being a different thing altogether). As a result, play was interesting.

I was accomplished enough by this point to appreciate the various strategies each man employed. Vowrawn was a backstabber. Qet liked coming in through a flank. Morris (yes, Morris) was a 'tidal' player in that he pushed hard, then fell back to his entrenchments which moved up a little every time, forcing his nearest opponent to exhaust his forces. Seaton was very much like Her Lordship with a move-and-fortify technique that 'scooped' or coiled like a hangman's noose around the area he meant to take.

Me? Whenever possible, I let them hammer on one another. Vowrawns men seemed to take this for inexperience or even unfamiliarity with the game; it made me a 'weak' player, easily driven off once the stronger, more experienced players had thinned their own ranks. Vowrawn, for sure, knew what it was doing: be satisfied with little gains while the other players whittled themselves down. Then hit them from heavily fortified centralized locations and expand like a plague. This was actually the bulk of the Captain's favored tactic, accented with Her Lordship's view on how to move across the board.

Another trick I'd learned from the Captain was a visual trick that made other players misrepresent in their minds the available forces on the board: he'd put his high-value markers—the five- or ten-man pieces—in the center of a ring of one-man pieces. Like in the days of paper money, wrapping a high-value bill around a roll of smaller ones to make oneself look better funded than one really was. This was sort of the reverse—you see most clearly the low-value pieces and don't look too hard at the rest.

I don't know how well it actually works, which is one reason I wanted to try it. He might have been pulling my leg after his own fashion.

Vowrawn winced as I turned in the cards to claim additional armies, placed them on a weak (but still formidable) flank. "Did you know you can learn a great deal about other players through this game?" he asked abruptly, tone innocently pleasant.

"It wouldn't surprise me, as it's a favored training tool of Her Lordship," I answered, passing the dice.

"Oh? And what does she use it to teach?"

Was that a loaded question? "Among other things, patience."

"A good trait for a Sith to have," Vowrawn agreed. "I don't think you're a Korriban graduate—you lack certain, shall we say, hallmarks."

I knew it. Now we get to seeing what he can learn about Her Lordship by learning about me. "I'm not. I've been training with her for…" I had to stop and calculate. "Nine, ten months?" Has it really been that long? It doesn't feel like it.

"And before that?"

"With all due respect, I don't like to think about it." It was an unhappy, painful time. I'm still learning to draw strength from it, but haven't finished mastering it.

"Oh, I can assure you, it's all one to me," Vowrawn answered unconcernedly. "I simply wondered where she found such raw talent."

"Exactly where raw talent spawns: in not-very-good places." I changed the subject by hitting his forces hard enough to break a line Morris had already softened. It was a break in my own strategy, but distracted him from his questions.

It was only later, while I returned to my original tactics, that I realized I'd betrayed myself without meaning to: I'd derailed the uncomfortable topic by using the game to divert attention to something else, and done so by abandoning my usual tactics.

The Darth was too old and too experienced not to have missed it. Thus, he knew that wherever I came from, it was something I didn't want prodded too much, that it was something I attached importance to—although in a negative fashion.

Qet suddenly straightened, a hand going to his ear, evidence of a tiny radio unit I hadn't noticed. "My lord? Shadow reporting."

Vowrawn sighed; whether to brace himself or out of weariness with an unfavored agent, I couldn't tell. "I'll take it. Excuse me, my dear." He inclined his head politely, then withdrew with Qet to the cockpit. I watched the Darth converse with both Qet and his man Shadow. Whatever information came in from the field, Vowrawn didn't seem happy about it. He wasn't raging about what was unacceptable, merely changing plans to salvage what could be salvaged.

If patience is a hallmark of the best Sith, then not shouting when things go wrong is another. I had the impression the Darth wouldn't shout even after he had a failed agent on the carpet for correction. The best Sith don't seem to need to raise their voices: they crush with force of personality.

I still remember Her Lordship's disappointment after I possibly-killed-I-still-don't-remember that one Imperial. It had more of an effect than any snarled tirade. And I've never disappointed her that much since. A formidable, versatile tool for a leader to have.

"Well, that's that," Vowrawn sighed.

"Trouble, my lord?" I asked.

"Nothing our new friend can't sort out, I imagine," he answered lightly. "Now, where were we? Ah." And, with that, he derailed further questions I might have by obliterating Morris right off the board in one long turn.

I wondered if that meant something, or if it was just time for Morris to be retired.

Morris himself took it stoically, though it clearly wasn't pleasant. Well, no one likes getting wiped off the board like that. A feeling of helplessness comes with it, then weary resignation. Neither are emotions Sith deal well with. It's why we struggle so hard to rise above them.

 **Corellia, Part XI**

Darth Vowrawn continued to take reports periodically, and issue further instructions. As it turned out, Lords Qet, Morris, and Seaton each managed a sphere of responsibility with Vowrawn overseeing. They withdrew more often than he did to manage their tasks, bringing only that which needed the Darth's personal touch—or which pertained to the work he and his 'new friend' were involved with.

Whatever else he was here to do, the Darth was elbow-deep in the Imperial efforts to take Corellia.

Vowrawn heads the Sphere of Logistics and Production. Now, that may sound like something having little to do with war, but in fact he almost needs to know more about how to run one than any of the Sith who manage the actual offensive and defensive responsibilities. He has to know what is needed, where it's needed, and how to get it there. He's also involved in depriving enemy forces of supplies, hopefully breaking supply lines in the process, or though some mysterious way ensuring the wrong supplies get to the wrong location—like summer clothes to an outpost on Hoth.

I'd always wondered how militaries could make that kind of mistake. Now I knew: men like Vowrawn pulling strings.

Much of this information came from the Darth himself, who proved remarkably willing to enlighten me on the subject. Maybe it was harmless. Maybe it was one of the few things he could brag about without compromising anything important. Or maybe I'd phrased the question just right to have earned the information I received. I know he tossed a few testing remarks and questions in during his explanations and elaborations.

…which, _ex post facto_ makes me wonder if he talked a lot in hopes of getting me to talk a little. Her Lordship wouldn't let anything about herself slip that shouldn't. An apprentice, so the theory goes, might not be quite as able to differentiate what was safe and what wasn't, might be easier to jiggle information out of.

I worked my brain harder over that one game of Gambit than I had in more than every day for the last _month_.

The holoterminal pinged, drawing me away from the playing table. The message was on Her Lordship's frequency, and the sound drew out Vette (about whom I'd almost forgotten).

"My lord?"

Her Lordship had several kolto patches on one arm, but seemed in her usual good spirits. " _Well?_ "

"Everything's quiet," I answered. "No word from Pierce, yet."

" _Understood. Get Darth Vowrawn._ "

"He's here, my lord Wrath," Vowrawn announced from behind my shoulder. It took effort not to jump clear out of my skin, he'd slipped up so quietly.

" _Excellent. I'm transmitting the material pulled from Senks' files._ "

Or, rather, the Captain is.

"Excellent!" Vowrawn beamed, moving over to the interface I opened for him. He scanned the information, skimming through his, eyes narrow with concentration. I wondered how much of this blackmail material would be recycled and used to his own benefit.

Such are Sith intrigues: waste not.

"Yes, without really delving into it, this looks promising. I would say we've found what we're looking for. And if we haven't, I think we've found enough with which to do some damage." The Darth looked up and smiled at Her Lordship. "To Baras, of course."

" _Of course_ ," Her Lordship replied sardonically. " _I don't suppose Baras' real name is in there somewhere?_ "

"Oh, I don't think so. But I'm reasonably sure I can find it, if you really want it."

" _That depends. Will it touch his pride for me to use it before an audience?_ "

"With the kind of trouble you've been giving him? He'll be utterly _apoplectic_ ," Vowrawn laughed, shaking his head as though he would very much like to see it.

" _The trick is getting him to show it._ "

Because, of course, Baras is good about keeping such things hidden. For him to explode all over the place? It means she's under his skin, in his head. It means she's stronger than he is because she can provoke uncontrolled reactions in someone widely known for being the epitome of self-controlled. To use his name _and_ strip him of his composure? She makes him just a man, and 'just a man' can easily be killed. Remove the Sith mystique and there's something very mundane beneath.

"I'll do what I can," Vowrawn grinned. "As far as this data… it's enough. I'd call this objective met."

From out of shot came a thing, reedy voice, trembly in the style of someone used to maneuvering people but staying out of the line of fire. " _Does-does that mean I get to keep breathing? And winning the war for the Empire?_ " He sounded like a child hoping to be allowed to go to… I don't know, a picnic or a carnival when he knew he was in something like disgrace. That must be Col. Senks.

Vowrawn said nothing, merely studied Her Lordship. Despite the blandly jovial expression, I had the impression he would walk away from this encounter knowing something more about her than he did this morning.

I already knew what Her Lordship would do: she would let Senks live. She's not here to interfere with the war for Corellia.

" _Your work for Baras ceases today; I am your new master,_ " Her Lordship said briskly. Unlike many Sith, she didn't sound like someone grabbing at toys in hopes of ending up with more than anyone else. " _You may continue your war efforts. However, you will also ensure I can reach you should I ever require your services. You will submit periodic reports to my ship._ " In Basic, for the Captain to handle. " _Failure on your part will have very predictable, unpleasant results._ "

" _Y-yes, my lord,_ " Senks chattered. " _Absolutely! I'm yours to command!_ " One Sith, to a man like Senks, is more or less like another. " _Am-am I dismissed?_ "

He must have already given her a frequency upon which she could reach him, for she immediately gave her permission.

" _I'll contact you again once we're somewhere more private._ " With that, Her Lordship hung up.

"Waste not," Vowrawn nodded approvingly. "She's of Marr's school of thought."

"Useful, in its way," Qet agreed grudgingly. I'd begun to think he was guarded about everyone, that he personally believed this guardedness was why his master was still alive and well.

"Oh, we could always use more of Marr's school—perhaps of more cheerful temperament, though," the Darth mused.

I had a feeling I was expected to say something to this but I didn't, instead pretending the conversation was above my pay grade, as the saying goes. I don't doubt anyone present missed the motivation behind this: Vowrawn was trying to learn about Her Lordship; I would do my best not to facilitate that goal.

"Mistress Jaesa?" Tuvi warbled, coming out of the galley.

"Yes, Tuvi?"

"Lunch for you and your guests will be ready in a matter of minutes! I hope you're hungry. I really have outdone myself this time!"

"We're using the table, so you'll need to improvise."

"Indeed, I already have!" the droid continued. "And everything should be ready, as I said, in but a few minutes." With that, the droid left and returned with a folding table found who-knew-where.

Her Lordship was back on the line in minutes. " _Alright. To business._ "

"May I take this moment to say your apprentice is a _jewel_ among apprentices? I can see why you pride yourself on her." The Darth's flattering tone left me uneasy.

" _Thank you._ "

"But, yes. Business," Vowrawn waved, dismissing Her Lordship's coolness to any topic not directly relevant to her mission. "As you know, Baras has the whole galaxy seeded with his goons. In this case, you'll be looking for a Jedi—well, a Sith in Jedi robes, playing a Jedi's part. I received a report from my agent, Shadow, while you were dealing with Senks. This Sith manipulates Jedi into taking care of Baras' enemies' assets… or simply his enemies."

" _He did tell me he had plants within the Jedi Order. This Sith must be quite gifted to go unnoticed._ "

I'd heard that rumor too, but I thought he might just be inflating his network a little, gilding the operation. I should have known better; Her Lordship told me he should be taken seriously at all times.

"If I can say one good thing about Baras, it's that he knows how to find and recruit the very best talent," Vowrawn allowed with a shrug.

" _I quite agree_. _But I have the feeling Shadow hasn't turned up anything useful._ "

"I don't know about that. You see, he's dropped out of contact. Last I heard, he was pinned down by artillery—enemy, of course. I told him to bunker down and that someone would be along to fetch him. He's on the far side of Axial Park, relative to your current position. That's just beyond Coronet Zoo."

" _That's the heart of the madness just now, my lord,_ " the Captain put in, using the practiced diffidence he employed around other Sith. No doubt he had updates about such things streaming to him.

"I'm sending you coordinates for the safe house Shadow was supposed to fall back to. There's a panic room beneath the residence, which is where Shadow will be if he could get there. That's where you should start." Vowrawn immediately sent her the coordinates. She probably passed them to the Captain, because a moment later he confirmed that he had a line of travel there—one that would skirt the worst of the fighting.

" _Very well_."

"There is just one more little task; given you indulgence of the military and your interest in the Corellian ground campaign," Vowrawn inserted slyly.

Her Lordship said nothing, the silence an inviting one.

"The artillery banks pinning Shadow are wreaking absolute _havoc_ on our forces."

" _We'll see._ " Which, for her, is almost a certainty. The Captain probably would have brought it up himself, once she was off the line. Even if he didn't, the moment she got wind of the trouble she'd sort it out.

"My lord, if I may," I broke in politely. She gave me the same questioning silence. "Maybe it would be best if I met you at the safe house? My gift would allow you to pinpoint Baras' plant that much faster."

" _It would, but you're precisely where I require you to be. We're dealing with a Sith assassin, I want a Sith present wherever Darth Vowrawn is. And this is an encounter your training requires, should the opportunity arise_."

I shuddered inwardly. She won't let me avoid the chance of encountering Draahg again. I have to face him if only to prove I can. I wouldn't be alone, but the lesson is clear: face fear, don't let it overwhelm me, don't let it force me into passivity, don't let it give someone power over me. "Of course, my master. I understand completely."

" _Any word from Pierce or Rakton_?"

"None yet," I answered.

" _Very well. We'll holo you when Baras' 'Jedi' is a steaming corpse._ "

"I do love your master," Vowrawn noted, once Her Lordship severed the connection. "Such a wonderful balance of traits and ideas, of tradition and innovation. And her expressions," he shook his head. "Lord Renault trained quite the red-headed monster."

"Do you know Lord Renault?" I asked, blinking in surprise.

"We've spoken," Vowrawn shrugged. "He managed a few affairs for me before he retired to marry that lovely wife of his. I suppose she's the one who instructed your master in being so charming."

"I suppose so."

Vowrawn shook his head, as if I amused him.

I'm happy he's happy.

 **Corellia, Part XII**

The midday meal was interrupted by a twisting, grinding sound, a sound I knew all too well: someone trying to get through the airlock. My heart jumped up into my throat as Vette (who'd taken her meal in the dormitory) and Broonmark (who'd ventured away from his cubby to eat with her) came tearing into the main room.

She looked pasty and her violet eyes were wide.

Broonmark's fur stood on end as he warbled angrily.

"Go! Get into the escape pods!" I barked, breaking the moment, grabbing Darth Vowrawn by the shoulder with one hand, Lord Qet by his with the other, and shunting them forward as best I could. It was hard, since I was much smaller than either of them, but reacted faster. "In! You two—that one there. Vette, Broonmark—" I let go of Vowrawn (who must have intimated to his men I was the voice of authority here) to point to another pod. "These things will punch through a wall at the velocity with which they eject, and he won't know, immediately, which one is yours it gives you a fighting chance."

"You're not going to face him _alone_ are you?" Vette demanded shrilly.

I bit the inside of my lip for a moment. I might have reinforced the order, except the squealing of metal on metal stopped. The sound changed: clunks against the hull, faint shouts, motion in the Force. It took me a moment to remember that Her Lordship had tasked Lord Khellin and his men with securing the _Astral Blight_ , which meant that Draahg met with their resistance—probably as a series of ambushes—before he could do more than fray the nerves of those of us inside the ship.

Nevertheless, better safe than sorry. I walked over to the pods, launching them one by one, catching the unmistakable sound of small vessels smashing through duracrete walls.

Even Draahg might find a half dozen or however many assassins coming at him from nowhere or from behind while he tried to deal with one of their fellows daunting. Add to it not knowing which of the six pods had people in them, and which of those three that did had Vowrawn, his task increased in difficulty.

For what seemed like forever, the noise outside, dulled by the ship's bulkheads, continued.

Then, three metallic thumps sounded against the airlock door, a genteel sound, thoroughly decorous.

I moved to the airlock door, turning on the visual pane that showed whomever might be out there. It was, in fact, Khellin, his hood for once pushed back. The camera could see little hints of his fellow assassins arraying themselves behind him.

"My lord?" Khellin's muffled voice asked.

I opened the door with more than a little trepidation.

"We cannot stay here, my lord. We've driven off the attacker, but that is all," he declared simply, expression schooled into a calm practicality that did my nerves some good.

With the door open, I could see one body crumpled on the ground. Two of Khellin's men supported a third. The rest seemed comparatively unharmed, but grim. "You and you," indicating the injured one, "that way. Get Vowrawn's men out of the pod. You and you—get Her Lordship's servants from the other. You're to take them to… the central hub for the Imperial war effort. You'll receive further instructions either from me or from Her Lordship. The rest of you, follow me. Darth Vowrawn has a safe house to which we are to conduct him."

The four assassins nodded and broke off.

That left me with Khellin and one other.

Out of the original nine assassins, we had one missing (possibly dead), one injured so as to be little help, and two decidedly dead. This seems like a rough campaign from where I'm standing.

Wordlessly, we followed the track of devastation Vowrawn's pod left. We found it slammed into the side of a building, embedded in the outer wall. Wrenching it loose using the Force, I found Vowrawn had already opened the hatch and was waiting inside the room the pod half demolished, lightsaber in hand. Lord Qet loomed beside him, looking edgy—as well he might.

"Not a bad use for these," Vowrawn mused, as if nothing odd had occurred today. "A little bumpy, though."

"My apologies, my lord," I responded automatically. "If you could lead us to your safehouse, I think the four of us," I indicated myself, Qet, Khellin, and the other assassin, "can keep our progress discreet."

Khellin simply nodded, looking grim, eyes flinty in the shadows of the hood he'd pulled back up.

I pulled my holocom out and cued her Lordship.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Nothing.

I could only hope that meant she was dealing with Baras' Sith—and hopefully any Jedi with them.

We'd been underway for about ten minutes when my holocom beeped. "My lord, we've had to abandon the _Blight_ ," I reported briskly. "We're moving Darth Vowrawn to the prearranged location, but Vette and the others are heading for the Imperials' central hub."

" _What happened?_ " she asked, eyebrows knitting.

"Lord Khellin and his men were able to derail the assassin before he could wrench the airlock open. He's still out there somewhere. Lord Khellin lost only one man in this skirmish."

"The attacker was injured, my lord. Lightsaber to the gut," Khellin put in. "It'll take him some time to get over that. I don't know how much; Tana likes to work the blade, so damage is appreciable."

" _Very well. We'll meet you at the safe house. Bunker down and stay safe._ " Her Lordship's tone told me to either continue briefing her or end the call.

I ended the call. On the one hand, I was glad not to have had to face Draahg. On the other, part of me wished I had. Still, Khellin lost one man—it should be remembered that assassins need the element of surprise to be most effective—and Draahg had to disengage from his objective after taking a lightsaber to the gut. I don't know that I could have improved the outcome.

"Why the escape pods?" Khellin finally asked.

"Because they can punch through a wall and cover more distance quicker than someone can on foot." I'd begun doubting the wisdom of this too, but it was too late for me to do more than worry. We were committed… and if Draahg got the jump on us…

I shook myself. Qet, Khellin, Vowrawn and myself. We're not helpless, any of us.

Oh, and Khellin's man too, I suppose. I glanced back, found that he'd seemed to have disappeared, a ghost following us or leading the way… or waiting for a chance to ambush an attacker.

We're _not_ helpless. I'm letting fear get the better of me and that's not good. Fear doubles whatever power Draahg actually has. One should never put weapons in the hands of an enemy. Fear is an inhibitor, it makes you slow to react, prone to a weaker stance when fighting. Anger is better, it pushes forward, stiffens resolve.

Being angry because someone makes you afraid? It just goes to show why the Sith way is superior to the Jedi way: it's better to do something with the fear instead of freak out and try to make the fear go away.

So I brooded as we made our way to Vowrawn's safe house, seething over fear, resenting Draahg for making me feel this way. At the very least I'm outside, not stuck in a giant, space-worthy tuna can. I have room to move. That was, after all, the biggest problem we had: lack of elbow space.


	52. Chapter 52

**Corellia, Part XIII**

Her Lordship and the Captain had had time to get mopped up by the time we arrived at the safe house. It was well into the night, as we'd had a long way to walk to find ground transport, and we'd stuck to moving through the megalopolis' torturous layout rather than taking one of the more direct paths via the speeder network.

"We were beginning to worry," Her Lordship said flatly when I shut the door behind myself.

"I'm sorry, my lord. We had to be careful. Has—have Vette, Broonmark, and the rest of Lord Khellin's and Darth Vowrawn's men checked in?" I asked uneasily.

"They have. No incidents."

All I could do was nod as I dropped onto the arm of the couch, relief spreading through me like weariness.

"I must commend your apprentice," Vowrawn broke in, much to my surprise. "A novel use of escape pods. Such clear thinking in the face of fear. Not a moment's panic, no compromised judgment, just swift, definitive action."

The praise ought to have meant more than it did at that moment. Maybe I was just tired of having to be careful what I said for most of the day.

"Escape pods?" Her Lordship asked, eyebrows rising.

I sighed, getting tired of explaining. "I needed to get people away from Draahg and the ship as quickly as possible. Escape pods can punch through walls and carry on some way. It seemed like the thing to do. No one captured could say where the others were with any accuracy." After all, powerful Sith can usually mask their presences if they wish to do so. Vowrawn did it when Her Lordship and I arrived at his hideout in Incorporation Island.

"More than that, Draahg wouldn't immediately be sure which pod to chase," Her Lordship finished. "That was clever."

"Not how you would do it, I know," I murmured.

"It's not. But you aren't me. I wouldn't advise you to engage him one-on-one, head on. It would be suicide at your current level—though that is much improved since you came under my tutelage."

It was nice to hear.

"Baras' mole has been taken care of. As have the Jedi with her." Her Lordship suddenly laughed. "I particularly enjoyed the part when you shot that one in the face," she added to the Captain.

"Shot one in the face?" I asked, feeling my expression open out of brooding and into genuine interest.

"A response to his useless attempt at mind manipulation," the Captain shrugged nonchalantly. "To be honest, I think we were stuck with a substandard set."

"I wonder. They _all_ seem to sound like that. Like little children on the schoolyard," Her Lordship grimaced. "As if it's a children's game we play."

Meaning the one of the ones she fought had strength of their own… but didn't take her as seriously as they should have. The words unlocked something about the Jedi I hadn't noticed, or hadn't cared to notice: their faith in the 'rightness' of their cause blinds them to the possibility of defeat. Her Lordship teaches that defeat is always a possibility and this should _never_ be forgotten.

"I'd have liked to see that," I mused. "I'll bet you didn't even blink." My mental render of the event was certainly a comical one. 'I command you to shoot the Sith'—then he levels his pistol and shoots the Jedi. Bam. No warning. Then Her Lordship jumps in.

"I did what was necessary to facilitate completing Her Lordship's objective," the Captain answered modestly.

I couldn't help grinning.

"Now. Baras' two operatives have been neutralized in one way or another," Her Lordship prompted Vowrawn. "What comes next?"

"Now, we go on the offensive," Vowrawn said. "No more waiting for danger to come to me yet again. I am able to function on a battlefield, whatever you might choose to believe."

"It behooves me to pretend you can't," Her Lordship answered patiently. "If you die, Baras' goal is achieved. I would rather underestimate you than over estimate you. Particularly when Baras only has to get lucky only once; we have to be lucky all the time."

"Reasonable, if a little insulting," Vowrawn sighed, not sounding too insulted at all.

It's actually a compliment: she usually give people the opportunity to surprise her.

At this point, Qet returned from the tiny kitchen, handing around nutrition bars—not to be confused with Imperial ration bars. "Lord Hellanix's stance reflects my own, my lord," he noted, speaking for the first time in hours. "We can't be too careful."

"Oh, yes we can, but I have no intention of arguing with you about it," Vowrawn said, gesturing with his nutrition bar. "There's a reason I'm here on Corellia—not the one I've put forward for the benefit of the masses, but the real reason. Baras has a… a prisoner, I suppose you'd call it. One of which we must deprive him."

"A prisoner? And he keeps it here? On a Republic Core World?" Her Lordship frowned.

"You found me in a Republic-controlled district and no one was the wiser because no one thought to look there," the Darth countered.

"True enough," Her Lordship allowed.

"This prisoner is an ancient Sith spirit, bound and indentured. He feeds off this spirit's power."

That must be how he gets around his… deficiency… with regards to Force use.

"I believe he uses her for her visions of the future," Vowrawn concluded.

"We knew he was using Farsight somehow. That would explain not only the accuracy, but the consistency with which he maneuvers events," Her Lordship nodded.

"So why didn't he see you surviving on Quesh? Or me joining your cause? Or… that other recent incident?" It wouldn't do to call out the way Her Lordship and the Captain duped Baras. Not in present company.

"One must ask the right questions, and even Baras can't be completely clever all of the time. Especially once your master began gumming up his plans every time he turned around," Vowrawn answered in place of Her Lordship. "We must find this entity and free her."

"I don't see why you need to go," Her Lordship noted.

"Because I'm the only one who knows the rituals necessary to unbind her," came the pert answer. "And because it's not something just anyone can do, even if there was time for you or someone else to learn, which there isn't. I'm afraid you're going to have to deal with me, myself." Despite the jovial joking, there was darkness beneath it. Firm resolution. This wasn't his first death match.

"What do you want to bet Draahg is already there and waiting for us?" Her Lordship asked. Despite the grim resignation in her tone, I sensed she hoped for it with all her might. It was one more insult she could inflict on Baras, but she had personal reason to want to dismember the man.

"It's not a bet I'd care to take," Vowrawn shrugged.

"Khellin," Her Lordship looked over to him.

"His cybernetics seem to augment or amplify his abilities. By now I've lost three men to him since the first encounter and all he's received in return was Tana's lightsaber strike. Tana was one of the slain." Khellin paused, then continued guardedly. "He was looking forward to butchering your crew. He dislikes your Captain in particular."

"That's because Draahg has no imagination," Her Lordship sneered. "But that's neither here nor there."

"There's more than just cybernetics. Baras may have done things to him, experimental things. I don't believe his ability to be all natural. But it will kill you, just the same," Khellin ended.

"Do you think you can face him, Jaesa?" Her Lordship looked away from the nutrition bar she'd been toying with.

My mouth felt dry at the thought. "It doesn't matter if I _think_ I can or not," I answered slowly. "It's necessary." I didn't want to. My mind revolted at the idea. But I had the impression that if I let this take root, it would show up again sometime, somewhere. Precedent was precedent.

"Yes, it's very necessary," Her Lordship agreed. "Is this the last step to be taken before I can confront Baras?"

Vowrawn's smile was an ugly thing. "Finish this last little task and I will walk you into the Dark Council's chamber myself. After that, the play is yours."

Her Lordship looked around her. "Get some rest," she directed at me (and, by extension, everyone else). "Draahg can wait that long."

 **Corellia, Part XIV**

By the time Darth Vowrawn got us where we needed to go, I was so lost that the only thing I knew was that I was still on Corellia—only because no shuttles were involved. It felt like we'd gone round in circles a fair bit, but since we met very little Imperial/Republic trouble, I could only suppose the circuitous route was meant to be a safe one.

To learn that Baras was, in reality, little more than an over-glorified parasite didn't come as a surprise. He was such a loathsome individual to begin with.

This 'entity' (Vowrawn was so sketchy about what it actually was that I began to wonder if even _he_ knew) was imprisoned in a Sith ruin far below the Corellian surface—and, indeed, the understructure. One could feel the darkness emanating from her. Unlike with the Emperor, where it filled a room, and unlike Her Lordship and Vowrawn, around whom it coiled like perfume or loomed like a threat, the Dark Side wreathed the entity like… like the glow around a candle's flame in a dark room. No, it was more than that; as if she _was_ the Dark Side but, like Her Lordship, didn't need to advertise the fact for anyone who met her to know it. It was understated but concentrated.

I couldn't understand how Baras captured her, let alone confined her… unless this was a prison, crypt, or what have you, to begin with. A place of waiting? Waiting for what?

" _Come closer._ "

The voice was both a physical sound and rippled through the Force. The softness of voice contrasted starkly with the rolling thunder in my head.

Her Lordship and Vowrawn sauntered forward, giving impressions of nonchalance. I edged towards the Entity, then broke off to the side in order to watch the door. If Draahg is somewhere, he'll be here. This is the best opportunity he'll have to come at Her Lordship and Vowrawn—two people he needs to eliminate. If I know anything about Baras, he's probably had it up to his eye-slits with Draahg's failure to wipe Her Lordship out of existence. The insults she's been heaping on him are getting hard to ignore; if other Sith keep hearing about them, they'll smell blood in the water and start asking inconvenient questions.

" _You are here. To aid Baras—knows I cannot resist._ " Her words seemed jumbled, like she wasn't used to communicating, with pauses in strange places.

"How did this happen?" Her Lordship asked, sounding unusually small and quiet, though my ears said she used the same modulation of voice she usually did. She simply seemed reduced because the Entity was so loud.

" _Baras… discovered—desecrated—my resting place._ "

That explains it.

" _Where I waited for my love, your Emperor._ "

Waiting place, I get a point for guessing. But love the Emperor? That's weird. He didn't seem to me the loving type when I met him on Voss. Maybe he loved her power. Maybe it's one of those hopeless one-sided attachments. Maybe this was all so long ago that things were different. Still, I found the idea… unnerving.

I sensed him, a tiny ripple in the Force, like a crocodile moving through a river. With a flick of the Force, resisting the urge to jerk it into place, I pulled invisibility around me in thick, luxurious folds and crept forward, putting myself between Her Lordship's and Vowrawn's backs as they continued conversing with the Entity.

You don't just bust someone out of a prison like that; it could do more damage than not and still not succeed.

He was hiding, much as I was, but maybe not quite as good at it. I didn't _see_ Draahg, precisely, but I knew he was there—my gift, perhaps, allowing me to home in on his petty, shallow self. I could see why Her Lordship didn't like him: he was a clichéd kind of Sith who thought he was a bigger fish than he was because that was what Baras permitted him to think.

He was also afraid. This must be his last chance. Lucky for him, it's the last time he'll have to face Her Lordship.

But he has to face me first. I need to face him first; otherwise he'll die and I'll never know if the fear he's instilled is a crippling thing.

"— _we are not alone,_ " the Entity rasped just as I jumped forward, propelling myself into the air to land a blow from above.

Draahg appeared abruptly, blocking the blow and repelling me viciously.

I landed hard, knowing I should have turned an ankle, except that I'd managed a passive draw on the Force to keep from setting down hard enough to take injury.

My guts tightened as I regarded the metal encrusted face, the lack of fluffy brown hair, the horrible discolored scarring. It was not the face that still haunted my dreams sometimes, but the presence was the same.

I found I _hated_ him as I'd hated no one else. Fear diminished, even if my hands still shook. He hurt me, left me helpless, made me afraid… but I wasn't afraid _now_. I was too angry to feel afraid.

Approval rippled delicately from Her Lordship, leaving me to suspect she meant to let me have that first blow, to see if I would take it. I wondered if she'd communicated as much to Vowrawn or if he'd guessed it needed to be done. Like most old and powerful Sith, he was quite perceptive.

Draahg didn't follow up against me, didn't charge Her Lordship or Vowrawn. He simply raised a hand and the Force curled, like a giant snake, around Vowrawn, who screamed in shocked pain. There _was_ something unnatural in the way the Force moved, like water gushing through a raceway. I pinned it on the machinery; it was the only reason I could see, and if I thought about it, someone said something like that earlier.

I had to wonder if Baras used him as a guinea pig in hopes of finding a way around his own limitations with regards to Force use.

It was by a narrow margin that I avoided a Force throw that would have slammed me into some nearby hard surface. Ripples caught against the edges of my perception—ripples from Draahg, and also from Vowrawn who seemed to be putting all his efforts and faculties into protecting himself as best he could from whatever Draahg had done.

Buying us time.

Her Lordship ignited her lightsabers, giving Draahg the kind of disapproving look that gets on people's nerves.

"At long last," Draahg rasped, "I've caught up to you again."

"You make it sound like I've been running. It's no fault of mine that you're so out of shape," Her Lordship responded cuttingly.

I glanced at Vowrawn, then drew back slowly, delicately. Draahg sounded like a man with a one track mind. If I could slip beyond his notice, I could catch him in the back, speed up Her Lordship's taking of his head. Because she was totally going to do that. No mistakes, this time. I wondered if she'd send it to Baras—as she'd done with Ekkage's, then Grathan's—before arriving herself, or if she's just throw it on the floor at his feet when she arrived.

"I told you," Draahg grinned, "I cannot be killed. Unlike your toys. Did you think _I_ would miss a failed compulsion? Or know how it happened?"

Meaning Baras _did_ miss it. Also meaning Draahg was paying closer attention to the Captain than Baras did.

"And yet you didn't tell your master. How naughty of you," Her Lordship chided.

"I might have done. But the truth is, I wanted to be sure of my suspicions. No fun breaking him if you truly didn't care. That is the plan, by the way," Draahg grinned wolfishly at the prospect. "He's going to die screaming and cursing your name and it will be. All. Your. Fault."

"My dear Draahg, the only thing you're going to break is a sweat," Her Lordship answered so bluntly that Draahg actually looked surprised he hadn't gotten some kind of rise out of her. "You speak as though he wasn't utterly replaceable."

If I hadn't possessed such perfect knowledge that the Captain _did_ matter, that Her Lordship _did_ genuinely care, I'd have believed every word she said. Handsome Imperials are a credit a dozen. She could find plenty of smart ones if she made a little effort. Barring the intrinsic quality the Captain has that others don't, she could find endless combinations of all the obvious attractive qualities very easily—but Draahg doesn't _know_ about that intrinsic trait.

As she's charming and powerful, no doubt many would be glad to be on the receiving end of her attention.

"Perhaps. But I've seen how your eyes drift."

Jealousy. How quaint. But I had the impression it was like how Pierce would think it a one-up on the Captain if Her Lordship had preferred him.

Half-assed. Bland. Boring. Draahg really is petty and clichéd.

Her Lordship snorted. "That's hardly criteria for valuing someone, Draahg. My eyes would drift to a _Hutt_ rather than linger on you—even if you ever were good-looking. Don't worry, though; you won't have to live with the disappointment for long."

I moved cautiously to the side, strafing my way behind Draahg, making myself as small and unobtrusive as possible, a little fish moving in deep water.

"You truly haven't figured it out yet, have you?" Draahg hissed. "Pain sustains me. I _ate_ of suffering as you watched me burn—"

"I didn't bother watching; it's why you survived," came the flat riposte.

"— _drank_ of anguish as Baras rebuilt me."

"I'm going to rip your implants out, one by one," she said coldly. I didn't doubt she meant it, and meant to do it while he still had a spark of life left in him. He was going to die screaming and cursing… and all because he threatened the Captain. Of all the people who've ever trash talked Her Lordship while I've been there, he's the only one who ever hit a nerve. Rather than send her flying off the handle, it compressed her, left her even more dangerous than she usually was, a ticking bomb that would obliterate whoever was dumb enough to jostle it.

"My eyes are no longer flesh, I see in a new way, now!"

"Then see this," I announced before ramming my lightsaber up and into his chest, the end punching out.

Draahg laughed, gripping the beam of burning light. "I see you now," he continued to Her Lordship. His voice might be laced with pain, but it was too clear it wasn't going to stop him. So I needed to find something that would. I had to. Not to help Her Lordship, but for my own sake. "And the sight sickens… and delights me."

I turned off the beam impaling him and jumped back, lashing out with the other end of my weapon before he could do anything worse than grunt. The searing blade cut across the backs of his thighs, digging into the plates protecting them, then finally cutting _through_ to bite into the back of his left thigh.

This time, he caught me with a Force throw. I hit the ground so hard my head rang, but I had the satisfaction of knowing I'd been able to act when necessity arrived, to strike first rather than remain on the defense. He hadn't impaired me, hadn't really crippled me. He'd made me afraid, but that was all: the fear passed, burned off when the situation called for action.

I don't doubt Her Lordship could kill Draahg herself; but we've spent too much time chatting and spending more time fighting seems unwise. More than that, Her Lordship most likely left me the opportunity, because there's no way _she_ missed me disappearing like I did.

I pushed myself to my elbows, wobbling unsteadily.

Draahg won't be doing anything clever, not now that he's been hamstrung. Unless he can draw on the Force like Her Lordship did on Taris.

I reached Vowrawn, who was convulsing, and wondered helplessly what I could do. I didn't understand the field he was caught in, so I didn't know how to help.

" _The death field…_ " the Entity declared, "… _is powered by the machinery of Draahg._ "

Suddenly, Draahg screamed. He knelt on the floor, unable to walk because of that damaged thigh, apparently having taken Her Lordship's foot to his face. He fell back and screamed again as she drove both lightsabers into his body, momentarily pinning him like a butterfly for study. Lightsabers back on her belt, she produced a thin stiletto from her boot, which she regarded coolly. A hand raised and lightning arced from it, as effortlessly as if she used that sort of attack every day. The result was frying Draahg's implants to useless ruin.

Her expression was icy as she straddled his chest, one hand grabbing him just under the jaw so he couldn't turn away. I didn't hear what she said as she ran the slender, sinister blade caressingly down the side of Draahg's face.

I looked away as Vowrawn landed on the ground with a thump. Draahg's screams filled the room, his fear and agony clawing through the Force, as Her Lordship methodically followed through on her threat: she was digging his implants out while he yet lived, her voice a low, inaudible counterpoint.

"Rather… literal… your master," Vowrawn panted as I helped him to his feet.

"To offer insult to her most trusted servants is to offer insult to their master. It cannot stand," I answered as apathetically as I could. "She's touchy about her dignity."

Vowrawn chuckled humorlessly at this, so much so that I think Her Lordship succeeded in surprising him. " _Very_ traditional. And now, you can help me over here… we'll leave her to it."

By now, Draahg was begging, the words strangely distorted as if she'd damaged his teeth and he was half-choking on his own blood. The simple fact that Her Lordship could remove such extensive modifications without killing him spoke of a skill I didn't know she possessed.

That was how I knew she really, truly loved Captain Malavai Quinn. Otherwise she wouldn't waste the time and effort on an unimaginative, uninspired flunky. If I'd ever entertained any doubts, they were gone. Anyone else would see spiting a rival by breaking his apprentice.

For once, she was actually enjoying someone else's suffering, reveling in her own precise execution of the infliction of _pain_.

Leaning heavily on me, Vowrawn began to murmur in low tones, dragging me this way and that as he paced to and fro. However he felt physically, the flow of the Force was smooth, even, uninhibited by something as minor as bodily injury.

"One thing, my lady," Vowrawn addressed the Entity, pausing in his work. "Can Baras see all of this?"

" _The Defiler sees_ _all_ _,_ " the Entity declared.

It was immature in the extreme: I gave Baras the one fingered salute, which made Vowrawn chuckle.

"Wonderful." He glanced over his shoulder at Her Lordship. By now, Draahg was whimpering, sounding utterly exhausted but still conscious and coherent enough to feel _pain_. "He must be boiling in his own juices."

I think the most disturbing part of all this was that Her Lordship gave every indication of doing all of this in cold blood, that her pleasure in ripping Draahg apart was simple satisfaction and decided necessity. Through our bond, I could sense all this… and that this was her version of an insurance policy. She wouldn't let a threat go unanswered. She would make sure of Draahg, completely sure this time.

Well, if revenge is a dish best served cold, she's got savoring it down to an art. It wasn't the pain that did it for her; it was ensuring that Draahg understood what his own threats _meant_ , and in the most intimate way possible, before she mercifully sent him screaming into the Void. Everything horrible he'd threatened against her Captain rebounded upon him under her careful oversight.

It wasn't a pretty exhibition.

"The final gate between you and the Beyond is opened," Vowrawn eventually announced, tone heavy with ritual and gravity.

The Force shuddered, like something heavy being rolled away.

" _Free… forgotten…_ " the Entity whispered. " _And grateful…_ " I could feel her slipping away, like sand through an hourglass, dissolving from our world. " _Remember me… to the Defiler…_ "

And then she was gone. Just… gone. As if she'd never been.

Behind us, Draahg went silent except for short, ragged gasps. A moment later, Her Lordship's footsteps indicated she was done with him. She probably worked faster than she would have liked, but we _are_ on a timetable. Draahg was lucky.

She was a mess, blood everywhere and, in one hand, a motley collection of metal bits. Behind her, and I glanced at him only to say I had the courage to do so, Draahg lay flat on his back, spread eagle, without a face. Blood festooned the ground copiously, pooling beneath him as he jerked in order to breathe, an unpleasant moist sucking sound emanating from him.

"Do you feel better, my dear?" Vowrawn asked, suddenly jolly-voiced again.

"Tolerably. I was in a hurry," she answered flatly.

I resisted the urge to squirm. I'd never had a reason to think of her as being truly sadistic. I mean, that thing with Whuddle the Hutt had been bloody, and very much all business, but she hadn't carved up his face while he screamed. She took that chunk out of his tail after he was dead.

"Well, you missed the best parts!" Vowrawn declared robustly.

"I wouldn't say that. Hardly noteworthy, I'm sure. No, the implants are enough."

 _I_ got the joke.

Vowrawn opened his mouth, then grinned as what she said and what she meant crystallized. "Well, you _will_ want your hands later, I suppose. No sense exposing them to something loathsome and disgusting."

"Precisely my thought. How are you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm wonderful! I haven't been in that much pain since…" Vowrawn shook his head. "…I thought I was going to _die_. I feel a century younger and so much the better! I don't foresee things getting any less heart-stopping in the immediate future!"

Nor did I, because his words could mean only one thing: time to give Baras what's coming to him.

Her Lordship handed me Draahg's implants, which I took, feeling extremely squeamish about handling them. It took effort not to gag or shudder as I regarded the glinting metal with its sticky red glaze.

Hands free, she strode over to Draahg, still suffering and making those wet sucking noises, raised him to standing through the Force, and took the head off with one powerful swing of her lightsaber before dropping it again. There was no coming back from that: the bubble within the Force that represented Draahg's life finally popped, and was already filling in.

 **On Resolution**

We arrived at the Imperial Legislature, where Her Lordship's entire following was assembled, around midnight. Unlike before, while Draahg was hunting us, we took speeders and a direct route to get there.

Lord Qet looked immeasurably relieved when Darth Vowrawn entered the main foyer, which he and his men had staked out. Lord Khellin and his men also looked less rigid upon perceiving that Her Lordship wasn't injured—though she remained bloody and looking like something out of a nightmare. The monster, not the victim.

Her Lordship still clutched Draahg's bloody implants. I had no doubt by this time that she really did mean to throw them at Baras' feet (or chuck them at his head) as part of her challenge.

"Pierce, you're back," she observed, once she'd taken in the assembly.

Coated in duracrete dust and looking like a man who'd put off getting mopped up so he could present results while still covered in battlefield, Pierce saluted. "The Bastion's ours, m'lord," he announced promptly and far too loudly, as if he still had a lot of noise ringing in his ears. "Glory's yours." He held up a piece of wadded material in one hand before shaking it out, in order to display it. It was a sad-looking Republic flag, which no doubt graced the Bastion at one point. "Tore it off myself," he beamed.

Her Lordship smoothed her expression into grim amusement as she took the flag awkwardly. "Jaesa, hold these, please." She held out the implants.

Less squeamishly this time, I accepted them, not missing that more than one person seemed curious about them… and that Vette seemed to recognize what they meant before anyone else did. She would: she got a tail segment the last time Her Lordship got into that kind of mood.

Her Lordship studied the flag, rubbing her fingers against the material. "Excellent work, Pierce. You and your men are to be congratulated. Perhaps Black Ops will even be reinstated on a permanent basis."

Pierce swelled. "Your mouth to their ears, m'lord."

"Get mopped up. I'll expect a full report." With that, she folded up the flag and traded it to me for the implants.

"You do attract the most interesting people," Vowrawn observed, watching him go.

"Thank you," Her Lordship replied, bowing her head. "I take it we have accommodations, Captain?"

"Indeed, my lord. I'm afraid your preferred basement suite remains unavailable. However, a sizeable portion of the ninth floor has been partitioned off for your and Darth Vowrawn's uses," he answered promptly. "Lord Qet and Lord Khellin have both been over the spaces and pronounced them secure."

Her Lordship's eyes glittered with humor… and something that made me want to squirm uncomfortably. I doubt she'll ever tell him _why_ she felt it necessary to carve Draahg up like she did. But I have no doubt she'll make it quite clear how she feels about the Captain once she's got him all to herself.

As for the Captain, his shrewd blue eyes roved over the blood festooning Her Lordship, ascertaining from the way she moved whether or not any of it was hers.

"I suggest we leave in the morning," Vowrawn declared. "It's been _such_ a day and I have a few things to take care of before leaving. No doubt Baras will call an emergency meeting of the Dark Council, try to push his bid through before you can do more damage. It will take a little time to assemble everyone once the call goes out."

Because some people would prefer to be there in person rather than via holo and would be willing to hold things up in order to do so.

Her Lordship turned to the Captain. "I expect both you and Pierce to accompany me. Make whatever preparations are necessary. In the meantime, you may brief me on the status quo as you escort me to my quarters."

Sucha professional withdrawal.

I double checked that the door on my side of our bond was firmly closed… but not before I caught a lingering whisper so full of relief, desire, and satisfaction: _my_ _Malavai._


	53. Chapter 53

**Korriban, Part I**

"Here we are, at long last!" Darth Vowrawn clapped his hands together, his jovial tones and almost childlike enthusiasm making more than one of us smile grimly. His 'mask of flesh' was once again in place and grating on my nerves.

In minutes, we'd be surging into the Sith Academy on Korriban in Her Lordship's wake; we're proceed to the floor where the Dark Council conducted meetings; then, we would roll in with her as she stormed in. It was a day for dramatic entrances, and twelve very touchy people who don't appreciate… well, anything really.

Especially with Baras lying through his mouth-slit.

So yes. Any sane person would be a little afraid. The trick was just how well one could hide it.

"Indeed," Her Lordship agreed, adjusting one of her fingerless gloves, then the drape of the sleeveless hooded robe she wore over her regular working clothes. The coppery embroidery on the garment viciously caught Korriban's sanguine light; get her worked up like she does for a fight and she'll look like she's _on fire_.

She scanned over the assembly, from me to the Captain and Pierce, to Lord Khellin and his men, to Lord Rathari who looked like he was starving. Not physically, but starving to see Baras finally destroyed, desperate and agonized over the waiting.

"Pierce? Quinn?" Her Lordship turned to regard her two officers. Neither had expected to be allowed into the Academy, but Her Lordship was adamant: they were both present to show her connections to the military… Pierce with the notoriety of having taken the Bastion was one thing. The Captain was simply a wild card as far as anyone else knew… although I suspect she would have taken him even if she wasn't making statements.

If anyone had a right to see Baras brought low, it was the Captain, whom Baras had tried to make his tool. And it would annoy Baras to see said failed tool present to witness his downfall. That Her Lordship didn't worry about Baras doing anything regrettable to him spoke loudly. Or maybe, she just doesn't dare leave him out of sight, so Baras can't ask in a loud and carrying manner where the man is and draw attention to an apparent 'sheltering' of one of her conventional crewmen.

Both officers were spruce in their mess dress; both wore the black braid looping their right arms, and a black band with a heraldic icon which was either her invention or relic of the post. Three Darths there have direct association with the military. Good impressions can't be overestimated.

My stomach wobbled again at the thought of going into the chamber where the twelve most powerful, the canniest, the more cunning and conniving men and women in the Empire gathered—although some would only be present via holo. I knew their names, I knew their Spheres, and I knew their politics… but it was still intimidating.

While Her Lordship had been practicing to get a feel for the Emperor's lightsaber, with which she planned to take Baras' head, I'd been studying the power structure to make sure I knew everything about everyone. It was unlikely I would need to speak, but if I did, I'd know to whom I was speaking and what I could expect them to want to discuss.

It also helped eat up some of the anxious time.

"Excellent. Then let us be off." Her Lordship twirled her wrists the way she does in combat to loosen them, then indicated Darth Vowrawn should precede her. The Emperor's lightsaber rested at her hip, ready to draw with her main hand. It was a silver and gold thing, ornamental but retaining functionality. Its blade, although quiescent now, glowed silvery white but with a golden halo. It wasn't like any other blade I'd ever seen.

Rathari fell in beside me, where I followed at Her Lordship's heels. Neither of us said anything, but while I felt only apprehension, Rathari felt a sort of grim anticipation that built as we moved towards the Academy.

If we can find a private place after everything is over and before it wears off, I'm up for a good time if he is.

Khellin and his assassins grouped themselves in a way that strongly implied 'bodyguards.' I felt certain that the Captain and Pierce would find themselves discreetly surrounded by a fence of assassins once the fighting started. No sense taking chances with Baras trying to pull noncombatants into the fray in hopes of discommoding Her Lordship. He might just do it, since he's outclassed and knows it.

The two Imperial Guards at the Academy entrance took a knee, bowing their heads submissively. "My lord Wrath," they both intoned softly.

It didn't surprise me that they knew her. The ones on Belsavis did, and had been adamant: they had better know who she was. They were all on the same side.

We moved through the Academy, Acolytes and Overseers stared, unsure if it was wise to stop and gape or if it was safer to just scurry away, out of notice.

With every step Her Lordship took, a sense of power and ability, of the anger that prompts a Force user to resort to bare-knuckle fisticuffs rather than dignify an opponent with any sign of being _an equal_ , drew around her.

It was pure, unrestrained intimidation, a gauntlet thrown, and a warning to anyone with sense: _don't cross me_.

The entourage paused at the entryway to the corridor leading to Council Chambers (mostly because we didn't fit in the lift all at once). Vowrawn, with a grin that was wolfish—and yet which did not disarrange his mask of cheeriness, which I thought quite a feat—bowed to Her Lordship before offering her his arm. "My lord Wrath?"

"Darth Vowrawn," she answered, slipping her elbow through his and drawing herself up to her full height. Anticipation colored her aura in hues as bright as the red and copper of her robe.

"Quinn, Pierce, you first. Jaesa, Rathari, you next," Her Lordship said simply.

The Captain and Pierce both saluted—and I won't say they were comfortable with the idea of going close to first—then fell in behind Her Lordship. The assassins fell in behind the officers.

Rathari and I went next as instructed.

The assassins had, as I expected, moved in such a way that although Pierce and the Captain could both be seen, they now stood carefully screened. The assassins stood facing the door, ready to pay their respects to Vowrawn, and more particularly Her Lordship.

Rathari and I peeled off as well, each taking a position just ahead of the foremost assassin on either side.

Then came Her Lordship and Vowrawn, her on his arm.

Rathari, the assassins, Pierce, the Captain, and I all took a knee as they entered.

Vowrawn slipped free of Her Lordship's arm, then bowed respectfully to her before sauntering over to his vacant chair.

Rathari and I rose, then the assassins, then the officers.

Her Lordship stood ramrod straight, radiating power and cold fury.

There are twelve Sith on the Dark Council (assuming none of the seats has been recently vacated). It was thrilling to stand there and know who they all are, their politics, their responsibilities.

Darth Thanaton—who looked pinched, pale (even for a Sith) and very upset—of the Sphere of Arcane Knowledge. A staunch traditionalist but only because, some say only _when_ , it suits him to be one. He looked _so_ upset, and seemed to resent the commotion Her Lordship was causing.

Darth Acheron via holo—his business with Biotic Science had him on… Corellia, I think. Anyway, he was a field man through and through.

Darth Marr—whom Her Lordship respected greatly, and who was responsible for defense of the Empire. He was like Her Lordship in that one only needed to look at him to know he _was_ powerful, that he wasn't a man who needed to demonstrate the fact to make it known. The iron-fisted authority hung about him like chill radiating from a frozen statue. Like Baras, and others, he concealed his face completely; the build beneath the armor was one of honed physical strength.

Darth Ravage handles diplomacy and expansion; I still think 'diplomacy' is an ironic Sphere where Sith are concerned. But expansion makes total sense. He was younger than I expected, and looked _highly_ disapproving over the interruption.

Darth Mortis, who handles law and justice. I'm not totally clear on what that means, but I had the impression his responsibilities included bringing Sith to task when they screwed up. If I hadn't killed Cendence, and his corruption ever got out, Mortis probably would have been the one to deal with him—or dispatch someone to do so.

The seat belonging to the overseer of military offense was empty, being Baras'. Without being recognized as Voice of the Emperor he still held it, and probably had a flunky lined up for it. Baras himself stood in the center of the room, studiously ignoring the massing entourage.

Another Sith via holo, Darth Decimus of military strategy. He and Vengean, so I understood, had always been tripping over one another's robes and stepping on one another's toes. Whether this was Decimus' fault or not I don't know. Having _met_ Vengean… probably it was Vengean's fault. But I'm biased. Anyway, I'd actually seen Decimus at a distance on Corellia, and it was from that world that he was definitely broadcasting. He was standing up, arms crossed, and looked like he'd been in the field recently—or had been called out of it—as his black robes were covered in duracrete dust. Fingers beat an annoyed tattoo on one arm, as if this interruption—this _holocall_ —was tiresome and better have a salient _point_.

The overseer of the Sphere of Mysteries, Darth Rictus… about whom I knew comparatively little. I thought this rather appropriate, given his sphere of influence.

Of course, Vowrawn, who handled Logistics and Production. He looked especially excited and seemed to be annoying Rictus because of it.

Then there was my indirect superior, Darth Aruk, who handled Sith Philosophy. I caught him eyeing me speculatively and could only assume he knew my face (as well he should, as Caliqu's handler and vicariously mine).

Darth Acina, who handles (that is to say hordes) the vast accumulation of Sith technology—new and old, powerful and weak.

There was another Darth I didn't recognize at all, but because I didn't see Darth Zhorrid, I had to assume she was the replacement. Unlike many of the Darths who wore heavy masks, this Darth wore a kind of crimson hood with a black mouth baffle; telltale bumps in the hood indicated horns, which proclaimed her to be a Zabrak; in the dark-skinned space between the mouth baffle and the edge of her hood, unblinking amber eyes glittered.

I exhaled slowly, aware that even as I had been taking them in, the Council had been taking us in.

Rathari, supposedly dead (and, everyone probably knew, on Baras' orders in spite of Rathari's appointment by the Dark Council) now revealed to be quite alive; me, serving to purify Sith ranks by weeding out those who were not dedicated to the Dark Side; Pierce, the hero of the Bastion (Marr, the nameless Zabrak, and Decimus would all know about him); the unknown and demure Captain Quinn; Darth Ekkage's assassins (which would annoy Baras) whose presence just went to show that _something_ had happened to Darth Ekkage to separate them from her… and even an idiot could tell that 'something' had red hair and held Draahg's implants in her left hand.

It was quite an imposing gathering—though from the tremors of anger and resentment, I could tell it was not a show pleasing to more than one member of the Council. Others seemed amused, or even intrigued.

Her Lordship said nothing, merely stood where she was, her black, red and copper garments, her red hair and pale skin standing out in the room's black and darkness. She was easily the brightest thing in the room, and she simply stood there, a pillar of fire casting a burning look between Baras' shoulder blades. In a fair galaxy, two burnt patches would have appeared on his robes.

Silence descended as footsteps fell silent.

"You're late, Vowrawn," Baras finally announced.

Point to Her Lordship: she made him speak first.

"That _was_ the hope, wasn't it?" Her Lordship asked idly, twisting his comment into a joke of the most macabre sort.

A twinge of anger. Baras isn't holding himself together as well as he usually does if she's already exposing little fissures. He's afraid—as well he should be—but less than he would be, I think, if he wasn't surrounded by powerful Darths. Maybe he thinks they'll cover for him.

Her Lordship felt it and chuckled again, the sound eerie in the dark… though I don't doubt she was well aware of the cold disapproval beginning to push against her. However, the fact that no one had demanded an explanation or done something about this invasion was telling.

No one strides into the Dark Council's chamber this brazenly and immediately starts playing the old games unless she has a right to do so… or is suicidal. It's easy to tell the two apart.

"Interesting," Marr almost purred his voice slightly distorted by his helmet. There was a cold… not quite approval… more like a scientist who's suddenly had a specimen they know about but never expected to see dragged in front of him.

Ah, but Darth Lachris works for Darth Marr and would have told him about the woman who helped crush Balmorra; I don't doubt he would have heard about our work on Alderaan since it counts as an unstable region of note. Several of these Darths will have heard about Her Lordship, and red hair is an unusual feature.

"This isn't the time for one of your games, Vowrawn," Ravage snapped. "Who is this… rabble?"

"Oh, it's not _my_ game at all, Ravage," Vowrawn answered in that silly tone of his. Leaning on the arm of his chair, he glanced over at Ravage, then snorted, shaking his head. " _Do_ relax, dear fellow—you're far too young for ulcers. The real game plays out between those two," he indicated Baras and Her Lordship. "Sit back, enjoy it."

Silence fell again.

After it had time to become pointed, Her Lordship spoke, "For the Voice of the Emperor, you are uncharacteristically _silent_ , Baras. Didn't our supreme master mention that I might be dropping in? Or were you expecting someone else?" Looking significantly at the implants, she abruptly cast them away from her into the center of the room, the metal tinkling delicately against the smooth surface. And yes, she hadn't bothered cleaning them: rusty dried blood clung to all of them, as did smudges of fingerprints from having been handled while the blood was still fresh.

The air seemed to grow tense—the Darths were testing her, seeing what kind of starch she had in her. I found myself fighting not to tense in response. I couldn't see why she wasn't trembling… but I suppose that's what makes Her Lordship Her Lordship.

Baras huffed, then turned around, studying her much as a headmaster might study an impudent student. He looked down at the metal bits, then nudged those closest to him away with one foot, as if they were merely pebbles, or had nothing to do with him.

He knew them, though.

I felt it, a slight snap as he took in Rathari's smirking face. Rathari wasn't hiding the fact that he fully anticipated an enjoyable afternoon of watching Baras shredded to a bloody mess.

He took in me, and I discreetly waved my fingers at him.

No doubt he took in the Captain, whose presence reminded Baras how the player had been flawlessly played right back.

He wouldn't care about Pierce.

There was no way he could miss the assassins, or fail to know who they were.

"I am merely _amused_ ," he answered with a weary sigh. He raised a hand, gesticulating in a dignified manner—he was going to play the game of theatricality too, in hopes of figuring a way to weasel his way out of this hole of his own digging. Not that I expected anything less. This is going to get ugly. "My fellows, this is my _former_ apprentice. No doubt you're acquainted with her defiance—she was unworthy of me so I excised her," he announced dismissively.

"Well, at least your forked tongue manages the truth from time to time. I _was_ unworthy of you," Her Lordship agreed. No one, not even a dullard, could miss that she was 'unworthy' of him because she was just better than he was in every respect. "Unfortunately for you," her voice dropped dangerously, "you _failed_ to excise me."

Baras snorted. "Presumption and arrogance without cause."

"I believe there are several lords here acquainted with my work who might disagree with you. On that score, I do return to this honorable Council the lord of yours whom I've borrowed for a time. Lord Rathari, I thank you for your service and return you to your master."

But she didn't actually _release_ him from her service. He still owes her his life… and now, he'll owe her for enacting the revenge he couldn't.

"My lord." Rathari bowed deeply, then moved to stand aside from the bank of assassins he headed. It was all symbolic, but the look he cast Ravage—well, expansion and diplomacy, and Rathari was working on expanding influence on Nar Shaddaa—was telling: Baras ordered him killed, but Her Lordship refused to cross the Dark Council or permanently weaken Sith interests.

I bit my lip, wondering at the Council's indulgence of all this posturing… before realizing that if ever there was a place for posturing, for forms and formalities, this was it. No matter how annoying or time consuming the Dark Council found it, this was the place for such things, something they all accepted. Antics and games that would normally be brought quickly to heel were indulged—if that's even the word—here, in this sanctum of power and gravity. It showed the quality of the players, concrete proofs of what kind of Sith they would be dealing with.

"The Emperor shall inform me what is to be done with Darth Vowrawn. For now, assist me in destroying this rabble," Baras waved nonchalantly.

"The Emperor's Hand has informed me what is to be done with Darth Baras," Her Lordship answered coldly, sounding far more authoritative, far more entitled to make the statements she did. She extended an arm, pointing at Baras dramatically with her unignited lightsaber. "And I need no assistance in destroying this pretender. Our supreme master requires it. He even desires that his own weapon should strike the death blow." She lowered the weapon to click it gently against the hilt still at her hip, turning so that the whole room could see the silver and gold glitter of the Emperor's blade.

A trickle of unease, of doubt, skittered around the room like bugs skittering for cover when their nest is upturned. It was only then that I remembered how Vowrawn seemed to have seen or sensed something, some mark left by the Emperor that acted as a letter of reference when he actually looked for it. Doubtless this communal unease resulted from similar recognition from the various Dark Council members.

And this put some of them in an awkward position. It also made me wonder how the Voice was marked... if at all.

"I am Lord Phlegethon, the Emperor's Wrath," Her Lordship announced coldly. "My blade is to fall upon this fool, but I will not distinguish between my target… and those who stand between us."

My skin prickled into gooseflesh at the threat.

"Is that a _threat_?" Ravage demanded sneeringly.

Her Lordship arched her eyebrows as if to say 'only if you're standing in my way.'

"I _know_ the Emperor's Wrath," Thanaton snapped. "And you are not he."

"Have you seen him lately?" Her Lordship asked, unperturbed.

Silence met this, as Thanaton settled back in his chair, thin-lipped and almost twitching with anger… or _fear_ … but not of Her Lordship, I don't think. He was afraid when we arrived. Now why would…?

"Be careful," Rictus noted dryly, though not as though he was inclined to be critical; I pegged him as one whom Baras had been forcibly holding in line. "Or we might grant Baras his request."

"No." Marr's single word severed Rictus' soft 'oh, by the way, you might with to consider' tone like a lightsaber through a limb. "Baras claims he is the Voice." And Marr doesn't believe him; it's perfectly obvious by his tone. "This lord—Balanchine-Renault, I believe—claims to be the Wrath."

Baras tensed as Marr admitted to knowing very well who Her Lordship is—and in doing so indicated he knew very well what sorts of things she'd been up to. I doubted he'd forego use of her professional name in future; the usage of her family name here was simply for the benefit of others.

"I will not provoke the Emperor. The one who lives speaks truth." Every syllable Marr spoke said 'hurry it up, too—we've got _real_ business to be conducting.' Even if he wouldn't actually speed the process, there was no reason not to express his preference.

I could see why Her Lordship held him in high regard. No sooner had I concluded this thought, than she moved to face Marr a little more squarely and bowed as if to thank him for giving her exactly what she wanted (without in any way abasing herself)… and for expediting the matter which would have required much more formality than she really felt like dealing with.

She immediately pinned Baras with a nasty grin that promised—to anyone watching—that she was going to take him apart piece by piece for the amusement of the Darths who had, so far, been forced to deal with his bluster and every little fault about him that's ever annoyed her. He was lucky he didn't have implants for her to carve out of his flesh.

At least, I don't think he does…

Baras sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Very well. The master shall grant the slave's last wish. The Emperor calls for your head, Hellanix."

Her Lordship chuckled. "Funny. He wasn't _nearly_ so specific when tasking me."

Baras' sneer was audible as he pulled his lightsaber loose and ignited it, holding up his free hand. "Attack me if you dare."

"How very gracious." She unclipped her other lightsaber and ignited both, the two blades bathing her in coppery light. "But come along, old man. Take the first move… call it professional courtesy," Her Lordship's tone shifted from lightly bantering to deadly promise. "Let all who watch see that I can withstand _anything_ you choose to throw at me."

"What is it that gives you this illusion of superiority?" Baras asked, shifting his weight discreetly. "Do you put so much trust in your little Padawan's gift? Oh, I forget—she's Sith now, or so she claims… are you sure of her? Just how much has she learned from you, eh? How to bite the hand that guides her?"

Her Lordship laughed, a ringing sound. "You seem to forget the knots she had your robes in. No, I'm sure enough that she would like nothing more than for the one who put her through so much pain—however to her benefit it ended—do a little screaming himself. And since I'm the best candidate for doing so, she'll exhibit patience. But now that you bring it up, an attack on my apprentice is an attack upon _me_ …" She twirled her lightsaber suggestively.

"Due punishments will be meted out for every treachery." I knew he was addressing the Captain as he said this.

"Precisely," Her Lordship inserted neatly.

"When you lie dead, those who followed you so willfully will not be granted such a blessing as a quick and easy passing," Baras promised in a funereal tone.

He ought to consider _why_ someone as cold blooded and efficient as Her Lordship felt the need to pry Draahg's implants out of his face. If she'd had access to a rusty butter knife and time, she'd have used them to the fullest.

"If you were going to succeed in killing me, you'd have done so by now. Your reach is short. That I stand here proves it to all who watch. I can sense faith in you… ebbing."

Her Lordship was quick to flick her lightsabers up to block the barrage of lightning Baras sent at her with a snarl, the purple net catching on the bright beams of her lightsabers, which sparked. I noticed she had to hastily adjust her footing, but perhaps no one else did. I'm used to looking what she's doing with her feet.

We've discussed this. Just concentrate. Make this a game of endurance. His potential for use of the Force outstrips that which he has access to—especially without the Entity boosting him however she did. He can only last so long… and he's long since given up meeting his opponent's blade in hand. His physical resilience will give out before his Force abilities overdraw.

 _I know._ The impression rippled across our bond as Her Lordship began to move in earnest. I knew her fighting style well enough to see what she was doing: Baras did press her hard—and he could, would, until his sedentary life caught up with him—but she had endurance and was simply letting him wear himself out against her rock-solid mastery of combat.

Knowing his limitations meant he was less intimidating to her than to others.

Baras and Her Lordship both yelped as they made a close pass. Baras's mask caught her lightsaber, Her Lordship was thrown forcibly back.

She managed to catch herself, landing nimbly, but it showed in the few steps she had to take that he had succeeded in putting her off-balance. I realized, as she kicked something out of her way, that she'd landed on one of Draahg's implants, and the unexpected obstacle was what unsteadied her landing.

Baras' mask stopped the blow, but crumpled and deformed nonetheless. I recognized this was less because his head was a good target and more because she was going to pry him out of that mask, reveal his face, put everything he's had time to forget to hide or control on display. If it wasn't so, she'd have taken his head in one clean swing. She could have done it.

He wrenched the mask off and threw it aside. Pale and panting, sweat glazed his face, his red eyes burned with hatred for Her Lordship. Despite the anger and hatred roiling in the air around him, he laughed—and there wasn't even a hint of uncontrol in it.

"Hello, John. At long last we meet face to face," Her Lordship beamed smugly. "A simple name for a common man."

Abruptly, Baras threw out a hand, expression drawn into an enraged snarl. She'd denied him his mask; she'd denied him his chosen name; given enough time, she'll strip him down to nothing—although whether literally or metaphorically, it's up for debate.

Again, Her Lordship caught the net of electricity, bracing herself firmly in case he tried anything subtle to follow it up.

"Had enough, child?" Baras demanded, his voice a bit thin with exertion but lacking none of the bluster and bravado he'd displayed earlier. "Can you feel your grip on life slipping? Why persist in this futile gesture of defiance? Let go… embrace your death…"

…because he doesn't realize her strength with the Force. He still sees a ham-handed battering ram, thinks that even with his application stunted, he can use the Force to outclass her.

"Forget the bravado," Her Lordship panted, tone full of excitement, anticipation… she wasn't afraid of him and never had been. "I killed your sister. I killed your apprentice. Void take it—you used _me_ to kill _your_ master, remember? What makes you think _you_ can kill _me_ without a hidden dagger or a poisoned cup?"

I thought it rather impolitic of her to admit to having killed Darth Vengean… then realized that most people here probably knew Baras had used _someone_ to do it rather than do it himself. And it made sense that the one who did it would end up on his shit list, since she knew where the bodies were buried…

…so she wasn't really admitting to anything anyone didn't already know and was preparing to take care of the root of the problem anyway.

Baras gave a chuckle that contained none of the sour note I detected about him. "Just being sporting. I would think you would appreciate the chance to catch your breath." Then, glancing at Vowrawn, "You champion is failing, Vowrawn… and you'll be next…"

Vowrawn smirked, adjusting himself to sit more comfortably in his chair. "Is that coming from you or from the Emperor, Baras? It's getting hard to tell the difference."

Her Lordship laughed, a vicious slash at Baras' pride, which she did not match with an equally vicious slash at his hide.

"Don't mock me, fop!" Baras almost screamed.

For a moment, all his control, all his self-discipline vanished, revealing a glance at the truth: he was afraid, he was desperate. He had to find a way to turn this around… and as I looked into him, I found he had been reduced to nothing more or less than a terrified old man who couldn't show his fear… because he was in a room full of people who would be quick to sniff out and capitalize on weakness.

He turned back to Her Lordship like a snake darting at a mouse. "Your patron just ensured your suffering will be epic, youngster!"

Her Lordship, this time, didn't respond. She didn't sass him, didn't attack. In fact, she assumed what she called 'a neutral stance' and let out a long breath, then adjusted her footing. Every move was one she would use on the practice floor. No one could miss the fact that she had, essentially, told Baras she was done playing with him, that she was bored with the posturing… or that he just wasn't worthy any further courtesies. Everything worth being seen by the Dark Council had been seen. His life could now be counted in seconds.

Baras had already been worn so threadbare that he couldn't take the added insult. He screamed, raising his hands and sending lightning at her, stepping forward as she coolly, calmly, deflected it…

Then the lightning sputtered.

Then it stuttered.

And then he was simply holding his hand in the air, looking foolish while absolutely nothing happening.

Her Lordship grinned at him. "Oops. I think your reach has finally exceeded your grasp."

I wanted to laugh, to crow, to howl my delight: it was _exactly_ like I told her! He has great potential with the Force… but his access to that potential is limited.

Baras recoiled, hunkering down as he watched her, his expression tight with fear and the realization that Her Lordship was nothing less than the rock upon which he was about to break. His nostrils flared. His eyes showed too much white.

He gave a scream of fury and charged her, lightsaber blazing.

She let him have three hits before she kicked him in the belly, passed her lightsaber through Baras' weapon—which garnered me the impression of several Darths being quite impressed—and sheared his sword arm off at the bicep as she passed. It was an awkward strike to manage, but she did it easily, fluidly, as if dancing with someone incompetent.

She spun away from Baras, robes flaring around her. It was an idle motion, graceful but full of strength.

Baras hit the ground, regarding with horrified eyes the piece of himself she'd so neatly severed. "Get up, John," Her Lordship commanded coldly, clipping both copper-bladed lightsabers to her belt and freeing the Emperor's silvery-gold blade.

Baras scrambled to his feet, hearing the promise of death in her tone… although he didn't see her idly lower the setting on the Emperor's lightsaber.

I swallowed, tensing. She's going to take him apart. Right here, right now, in front of the Dark Council. She'll claim it was recompense for his audacity, for having played them for fools… but more than that, it's a warning, a statement. They will _remember_ that she drew it out, that she never flinched, that she was the instrument of the Emperor's displeasure… and that that displeasure could be very great indeed. They would remember that the show to which she treated them was the same to which she would treat the Emperor himself, had he—or, I suppose, the Voice—been present to watch.

And without the Emperor to call her off, to tell her to make it quick… she was free to draw it out as much as she wished.

I shivered inwardly.

"I give you one opportunity," Her Lordship declared, pointing at Baras with the ignited lightsaber. "Admit your lies and I'll make this quick. You have _only_ this one opportunity to do so. You are _not_ the Voice of the Emperor. You contrived to have the true Voice silenced. You have attempted to make this honored Council your dupes. You have blackmailed and attempted assassination upon several of them. You have compromised the Dark Council's activities in the wider galaxy on more than one occasion. You have lessened the effectiveness of the war effort for your own personal gains. _Confess_." The last word cut like a pair of razorblades moving at high speed.

If looks could kill, she'd have dropped on the spot. Unfortunately, they could not, which left Baras with one option and only one option.

He choked on his own intake of breath, spit too thick in his mouth as he staggered to his feet. "I call upon the Dark Council to… to kill this fool!" he bellowed.

Silence.

"Now! The Emperor _commands_ it!" His voice broke, the sound bouncing off the walls before giving way to a silence so profound it was like being underwater.

Her Lordship took a step towards Baras, who took a step back from her and tripped on the hem of his own robes.

"Darth Marr!" Baras nearly screamed. "Strike on the Emperor's behalf, or suffer his disfavor!"

Marr let the silence drag out just long enough to make a point. "I believe I shall take my chances," Marr answered serenely. Then, as an afterthought, "You've perfected Lord Augustine's style, my Lord Wrath."

Her Lordship's mouth curved into a smile. "Thank you, Darth Marr. You honor me and him who trained me."

If she can, she'll rub it into her father's face, when she sees him, that _she's_ perfected _his_ style. And he'll be pleased as punch, deep down where no one can see.

Baras let loose a thin whimper, the layers and veils behind which he hides pulling free of him faster and faster, revealing the frightened old man for everyone to see.

"Ravage!" and this time Baras' voice was shrill. "Has your sense left you as well? Defend me! Defend the Voice!"

Ravage, from whom I caught a ripple of disgust—I think he really did believe Baras' claims—shook his head. "I will not stand in the way of the Emperor's Wrath."

Baras tried to scuttle back, until the Zabrak Darth held up a hand, a wall of the Force preventing him from coming any closer.

Several of the other Darths followed suit, walling off the space in which Baras was permitted to make his pitiful retreats and preventing him from getting too close to them, from sucking them into the battle.

Her Lordship's assassins followed suit, blocking the door as well.

"You think you can silence the Emperor's true Voice?!" Baras screamed, turning in place to glare at each of the Dark Council in turn, treading on the hems of his own robed as he whipped about. "Deliver the death blow then! From beyond darkness I shall strike at you!" he pointed accusingly at Her Lordship. "Someday, vengeance will be mine!"

"I burn this galaxy clean of you. And I shall do so _thoroughly_ ," Her Lordship announced coldly.

And she did. She washed him out of existence by inches, as attentively as a housekeeper ever saw to laundry and linens. She worked away at him until there was nothing left but a sobbing, sniveling heap, lacking the strength or anger to do anything constructive on this side of death or upon the other—and the real reason she drew it out wasn't the one she put forth. The real reason was that he represented a threat to the one person who mattered.

But no one would ever know that. Well, no one but me.

The whole long while, Rathari's enthusiasm and pleasure at watching the protracted process beat against my senses. He wasn't even bothering to hold it in (which was stupid of him).

Finally, Baras hit the ground, his head rolling away from his ruined body. Her Lordship did not turn off her lightsaber. She merely held it out to one side, ready to use but not explicitly threatening, as she turned on her heel, looking at each of the Darths in turn. "I am the Emperor's Wrath," she said firmly in a funereal tone that carried to every corner and crevice in the room.

Suddenly, into the silence that followed, "At last!" Vowrawn cried, making me jump and several others flinch, as he rose from his seat, arms outstretched. "The end of Baras! The air clears and my lungs breathe deeply again." He took a deep breath just to emphasize his point.

The spell was broken.

Acina gave a snort that was anything but ladylike.

I thought I saw Ravage roll his eyes… but more from a persistent personal dislike of Vowrawn than anything else.

"You have proved that you are truly touched by the Emperor," Vowrawn continued.

Ten heads, not counting Vowrawn, nodded once (some more brusquely than others).

"The Dark Council knows that the Emperor's Wrath has free reign." Vowrawn sat back down, heaving another relieved sigh.

"You are acknowledged, Wrath," Marr agreed. "Your actions will not be challenged as long as they do not contradict our own." There's a test in that statement.

Her Lordship surveyed him. "It is certainly my hope that there will be no reason for me to interfere with this honored Council's workings." She didn't need to finish the sentence: but if the Dark Council failed in its duties as with Grathan, or overstepped themselves as in the cases of Baras or Jadus, she would do her job as the Emperor's enforcer. It wasn't a threat, necessarily… but it was an understood thing. "Beyond that, I look forward to aiding this honored Council." She bowed politely, but it was one of those empty pleasantries one uses only to show oneself well bred.

"Then our—" Vowrawn's pleased outburst was interrupted by another one.

The doors to the chamber flew open, bringing with it a burst of anger like heat escaping an oven. It was accompanied by a shrill scream, like the sound of hunting birds on Alderaan.

 **Korriban, Part II**

A Twi'lek I recognized by description as Lord Kallig stomped into the room, her _lekku_ bouncing with every step, her ridiculous and revealing robes roiling about her; she dressed like a dancer parodying a Sith for reasons best known to herself. She pointed at Thanaton as if she might skewer him where he sat with that one dainty finger, an unholy glee in her eyes. Her chest heaved as she spoke, her body trembled. "Found you!" she shrilled, her eyes glittering in her face. "I found you, I found you! _I! Found! You!_ " With that, she laughed, an unhinged sound that promised _pain_ and _revenge_ and _someone's really bad day_.

It should have been funny to see this Sith lord accusing a member of the Dark Council of something as though they were children on the schoolyard. As it was… it was oddly frightening.

A few banthas shy of a herd. I really see it now. Fortunately for her, she was powerful; it was like being trapped with something very large and very vicious in a very small room. It was only as I really studied her that I got the impression her power was immense… but her control over it was patchy at best. She had only one level of Force application: overkill.

"Lord Kallig," Her Lordship said grimly.

Kallig scowled, her lipstick darkened mouth twisting into a pout. "I don't want _you._ I'm here for _him_ ," she growled as if to ask 'didn't you see me pointing?'

"Clearly." Her Lordship chuckled. "Today seems to be a day for apprentices overthrowing their masters. Come, Darth Thanaton. The lady is here for you—and I'm rather curious as to why." Meaning she won't be lopping off _any_ heads just yet.

I knew enough about Thanaton and Her Lordship to know that Her Lordship disapproved of the old man's refusal to allow tradition to guide rather than to bind. As she once quoted Baras: _his inability to adapt to the ever evolving Sith paradigm has become a liability._ I'd also picked up from conversation that he wouldn't be such a staunch traditionalist if it wasn't to his benefit to be one.

With that, Her Lordship and Kallig effectively switched places, putting Kallig in the middle of the chamber (giving Baras' corpse a disgusted look before she pitched it petulantly into the nearest unused corner before tossing the head away as well) while leaving Her Lordship surrounded by her own people.

"Do you hear that, Thanaton? You can't run anymore. I'm going to send you to the Void… in pieces." Kallig's giggle had an odd quality, like she was so angry only because she was utterly terrified. There was eagerness, nonetheless.

Her Lordship's aura pulsed with disdain.

Thanaton looked on the verge of apoplexy; it became clear to me in a very few seconds that this sparking, hissing hellcat was what had him so wound up, even while Her Lordship dealt with Baras.

A second later, Her Lordship waved several people to the fore: a disgruntled-looking ill-favored human, an Imperial officer so vague he might have wandered in by accident (if the wrinkles in the shoulder of his tunic were any indication, the disgruntled one kept grabbing him by it to keep him moving along), a monster I recognized by description as Khem Val, and a sedate Kaleesh in Sith robes who watched with amber-eyed attentiveness.

At some point someone, possibly one of the Guardsmen, slipped in to deposit a sort of folding seat for Her Lordship. She was important enough not to be kept standing, now that her business was concluded.

"With the exception of my apprentice, you are all dismissed. Return to your ships and await my orders," Her Lordship declared before sitting down to watch the outcome. Rustles of robes indicated the reverences paid to Her Lordship while the tap-tap of polished Imperial Armed Forces shoes indicated the withdrawal—because, of course, the assassins wore soft-soled footgear that barely made any sound at all.

At a gesture from Ravage, Rathari also withdrew.

I caught his eye. Since the Dark Council couldn't see him, he winked at me. I lowered my eyelids and gave as small a nod as I could. We'll meet up later. First things first, though…

By this point Lord Kallig was so keyed up that she was beginning to make Ravage squirm. Many of the others' postures began tensing in response to the power roiling around Kallig. I don't doubt that they all appreciated the difference between Her Lordship and Kallig's strengths: her Lordship was a precision attack that always got its man. Kallig was like a nuclear device that might or might not kill what it was pointed at but would level anything in range when it went off. Her Lordship's cool composure allowed her greater control of everything around her; but Kallig would try to disrupt that control in people less adept than she… and perhaps some that were more. In short, Kallig was a walking time bomb, a powerful child prone to a child's tantrums and fear-responses… all of which were backed by substantial power.

She was dangerous in the worst possible way.

Her Lordship, on the other hand, was everything a first-class Sith should be.

The silence thickened and after a few minutes of it—mouth pursed into a very thin line, his hatred seeming pitiful compared to the deep abyss Kallig intended to drown him in—Thanaton rose to his feet. He did it with dignity, but he was clearly a man forced back into his last redoubts. "My lords. Her former master, Darth Zash, was corrupt. As a result, _she_ is corrupt," he pointed dramatically at Kallig. "Without Sith tradition we have noth—"

"You _ran away_!" Kallig exploded, taking a step forward (and almost covering up Marr's bland 'what do you want _us_ to do about it?') "What kind of tradition is _that_?!"

Thanaton ignored Kallig and her heaving breaths to address Marr. He'd recovered some of his nonchalant mask, but it had already been peeled back to reveal to the whole room that this rabid Sith frightened him. "You know what the situation requires. Order must be preserved, punishment meted out. If we are to conquer our enemies, Zash's apprentice must be—"

" _You_ declared the Kaggath. _You_ picked the battleground. _You_ had the advantage there and when I closed in on you, you _ran away_ to cower behind the skirts—robes—of _these_ men and women! Tradition says _I_ won and tradition allows _me_ to take _your_ head! And I will, too," she added in a dark undertone. By now she was practically shaking. I had to wonder what kind of warped power rested within her. It was… fascinating… even a little obscene.

"We are well aware of the rules of the Kaggath," Mortis said dryly.

"The Kaggath," Ravage sneered, "is a playground game. Murder has no rules—something we have all had some experience with, I think." His tone ended on such a dark note that I shuddered inwardly.

"The Kaggath," Thanaton snapped, "is an honored tradition—"

"And _you ran away_!" Kallig bristled, actually stamping her slippered foot. "How honored can it truly be if you—tradition-loving man that you are—turned tail before one lowly Twi'lek slave?" The air in the room trembled, crackling with electricity as she took several more steps towards him.

She may be crazy, but she presents an excellent argument.

"The question remains, Thanaton," Marr declared. "Why have you failed to kill this apprentice? She is a child. She is a _slave_ , coming from no Force sensitive lineage. According to your… doctrines… a Sith such as yourself should have crushed her without a thought the _first_ time your tried."

There was a _very_ nasty silence that left me struggling not to smile.

Kallig giggled into it, covering her mouth as she did so.

"If you cannot restrain that sound, be _silent_ ," Ravage snapped, thumping his fist on the arm of his chair.

Kallig cast him a wicked look, but her preoccupation with Thanaton removed any inclination she might have had to test his threat. "The fact is that I beat him at his own game. And now the poor old fossil doesn't know what to do."

Thanaton's aura snapped. "Do _not_ mock me," he snarled, pointing at her.

My mouth dropped open as Kallig laughed—not giggled—and immediately made a face worthy of a schoolyard argument at him before her face broke back into its unholy leer.

"I swear, if someone doesn't silence this windbag or excise this brat _I will_ ," Ravage said in a tone of controlled poison.

Her Lordship didn't make any move or give any sign that she intended to intervene one way or the other.

Thanaton shot him a look of pure murder, to which Ravage responded with an arch expression, his fingers wiggling gently as though ready to stand up and put them both out of his misery… Thanaton first, because I think Kallig was enough of an unknown to keep everyone on his toes.

"I will not be betrayed," Thanaton said in a quiet, ranting voice that grew louder with each subsequent declaration. "I will not _die_. And when I kill this slave you will all _answer for it_."

Kallig snickered softly. "And people say _I_ have no sense. You couldn't kill me. I wouldn't stay dead… and you think you can fight all of these people?"

Suddenly and without so much as a change in her homicidal expression Kallig screamed, a sound like the cry of a hunting bird that echoed and reverberated in the room. With the scream came a flood of lighting exploding away from her as if she'd been holding it in as best she could until now, when it ripped free.

It took everything I had not to back away from the display. My hair began to frizz with the amount of static suddenly charging the air, hanging latent and ready to be pulled into service, even as a storm of realized lightning arced from Kallig's hands.

Thanaton had to scramble to deflect it and he wasn't the only one who pulled the Force between him and Kallig's verging on uncontrolled power. It was raw and visceral, powered by deep, dark terror twisted somewhere along the line into a hot, consuming rage.

I didn't want to look into her with my gift. She wasn't _exactly_ crazy, I realized. She as just… _broken_ … and insanely powerful because of it. It was a bad combination.

That was Kallig's tactic for the battle: to put Thanaton on the ropes then keep him there until he couldn't take the pounding anymore. I've seen artillery barrages do that.

Unfortunately, even Kallig couldn't maintain a perfect impression of a high-voltage electrical cable; the instant she had to stop to recover herself, Thanaton struck like a snake.

Kallig screamed as a veritable storm of lighting, not unlike the one she'd hailed down upon him (his was weaker, but more focused), hit her. I squinted as the bands of electricity netted around her, making her glow.

Then, suddenly, a shockwave exploded out from Kallig, buffeting everyone's senses, sending sparks flying in all directions and knocking Thanaton into a stagger.

Kallig hung in the air, her toes inches from the ground, her robes billowing strangely. There was something in her eyes, as if the concentrated raw rage had suddenly frozen and crystalized. Strange ripples in the Force moved about her, like water dripping from four sources stationed around her, the ripples overlapping and comingling, disrupting any force that acted against her. She smoked, but there was no sign of damage to her body or robes.

"Surprise," she breathed, her maniacal smile reappearing as she gently touched down on the ground, her robes settling softly around her.

Thanaton drew back; I knew I wasn't imagining the wisps of puzzlement, of surprise… of unease… that her little trick produced. An attack like that from a Dark Side master should have killed her—even though, it's fair to say, her attack should have killed him. It would have, had he not been Dark Council material.

Kallig took a slow pace forward then shouted, sending arcs of electricity at Thanaton, who hastily countered. She caught his counter in one hand, sending it rocketing towards the roof, bringing down a hail of dust and tiny chips of the ceiling. By now her leer was back in place, raw power glittering behind her eyes.

She screamed again, hitting him with another barrage that increased and redoubled until _he_ screamed. Then it stopped, leaving Thanaton doubled over, panting and (pardon the pun) shocked. He looked up with raw naked fear in his eyes… but unlike Kallig who seemed to transmute fear into something useful Thanaton couldn't do it. He'd forgotten what real fear was, become entrenched and confident in his own power.

"Do you feel that?" Kallig asked, her soft voice shaking. "It's not unlike a shock collar." She hit him with another barrage, and again stopped when he screamed. "The sensation is rather remarkable; I know it well." She hit him yet again and this time she let him scream for a few protracted seconds before letting him collapse, smoking, to his knees. "You will live just long enough to learn that _I am not a slave_ ," she hissed before hitting him yet again. Thanaton's screams echoed and grew shrill until Kallig let him go. " _Beg_ for it to stop. I want to see you _crawl_ ," she hissed, then hit him again.

Thanaton was panting on his knees… and was not a pretty picture. You can only take so much voltage before your body revolts. He did crawl, or try to, anything to get away from the psychotic Sith who seemed to have gotten herself under some semblance of control.

I had the feeling such control was tenuous at best, that it would disrupt at the first opportunity.

Finally, Mortis got to his feet, coming down the steps leading up to his chair. He stopped just short of Thanaton, who twisted to look up at him. "I am sorry, Thanaton," Mortis declared before quickly and efficiently snapping his old friend's neck.

It was more merciful than watching Kallig take him apart, dismantling him until he was nothing left but a frightened old man with nothing of the powerful Sith on the Dark Council left to him.

Watching Her Lordship dismantle Baras was one thing. This was different.

"That's no fun," Kallig pouted before levitating Thanaton's body and throwing it across the room—it hit the door behind Her Lordship, failing to collide with her by less than an arm's length. Her Lordship didn't move so much as an inch at any point, though I flinched at the crunching sound.

Another silence ensued until Ravage snorted. "Good riddance to him," he sneered.

"He was a better Sith than you give him credit for, Ravage," Marr almost snapped—I say almost because Marr was one of those men who can imply a tone without actually using it. It's a strange thing to describe: he definitely didn't raise his voice… but the cutting quality was still there.

Mortis snorted as he returned to his chair, leaning on the arm and studying the panting Kallig who seemed to me not to have thought about anything beyond killing Thanaton. Now she was stuck in a room with eleven powerful people (plus me, but I didn't really count) who had just watched her murder one of their number.

The raw anger began to dissipate from her, leaving her small and afraid… but beneath the fear the anger began to build again, readying itself to explode out in her defense.

"Let us hope his successor is as worthy," Mortis declared dryly.

Kallig looked puzzled, then glanced back to her entourage as if they might answer a question. I'd have laughed if this were the time or place for it. She really did look all at sea, nothing like the raging, hissing, spitting monster she'd been but moments before.

"My lord. Your _seat_ ," Mortis gestured to the chair the late Darth Thanaton had occupied, carefully enunciating each word.

Kallig immediately perked up and to my surprise, bowed to the assembly before walking up to Thanaton's chair… and plopped into it, bouncing a couple of times to test the softness of the cushions.

I heard her ill-favored servant groan, as if wishing she could restrain herself and not destroy the gravitas of a situation.

"She's only a lord!" Ravage protested, looking pained. I imagine more than one of them were looking like that under masks of metal or flesh… but no one would forget what she looked like in her full glory; seeing it was enough to prevent anyone from taking her less than seriously, however childishly she chose to act.

Like Vowrawn when he's playing the fop.

"You can't put a _lord_ on the Dark Council," Ravage concluded.

Kallig's eyes narrowed, her hands balling into fists as her posture grew straighter, the very picture of someone readying herself for another fight.

"Quiet, Ravage," Marr snapped again. I began to think that the Dark Council had had enough theatrics and reshuffling of power structures for one day. "She has earned her place."

"Unless you require an encore," Acina said demurely but with a wicked grin. "I'm sure the young lady will happily oblige you."

Ravage sneered as if it was a matter of indifference… but he cast Kallig a sidelong look as if weighing how much he wanted to continue this argument.

Kallig grinned at him. The look said 'yes, she could give a repeat performance if he liked. Would he like that? She'd like that.'

"The Dark Council recognizes you as a master of the Dark Side and one worthy to be included in our number," Marr said shortly. "And as we have such a distinguished guest, perhaps my Lord Wrath will bestow an appropriate name for this… newly elevated Darth."

Her Lordship got to her feet with all the easy grace she usually did. "You honor me, Darth Marr," she said simply before crossing the room to study Kallig more closely.

Kallig did not like Her Lordship being that close and scrutinizing her at the same time. "Lord Kallig, you are from today known as Darth Nox head of the Pyramid of Ancient Knowledge, charged with keeping the mystical knowledge of the Sith Order… and guarding its secrets. You enter the ruling body of the Empire, answerable only to the Emperor."

"…so where do you fit in?" Kallig asked uneasily.

I could see Her Lordship's smile in my mind's eye. "I am, among other things, his executioner."

There was another one of those communicative silences. "I will… do my best to live up to my new position," Kallig answered uneasily.

Ravage made a disgruntled sound in his throat. "Never trust the humble ones."

"I wish you luck, Darth Nox. You will need it," Her Lordship announced.

There was nothing more to be done, really. I could almost feel several of the Darths itching to either get back to work or go meditate on the day's events. When they finally declared the meeting over, Her Lordship was the first to withdraw, leaving her folding chair where it was.

"That was interesting," I announced as we strode back towards her ship.

"Extremely," Her Lordship agreed. "But did you find it enlightening?"

"It was _very_ full of lightening, I'll give it that," I returned, eliciting a chuckle from Her Lordship. "But, joking aside, I found it quite a fascinating lesson."

"Name three small details that caught your attention."

"They let you sit in their presence—you're not one of them, but they're not going to keep the Emperor's Wrath standing. Kallig's done something funny to herself—the Force distorted strangely around her for a few minutes during the fight, as if something was standing there to disrupt Thanaton's attack. I noted she was smoking but not actually burned. I saw an object lesson in the values of tradition versus progress… and what happens when they get out of balance."

"Very good. You're truly a credit to me, Jaesa."

I smiled inwardly at this. When I first came under her tutelage, I doubt I'd have noticed about half of it. I'd have been afraid of the power Kallig—Darth Nox now, I suppose—and Thanaton had been throwing about.


	54. Chapter 54

**Epilogue**

I was the only member of the crew privy to the fact that Her Lordship and the Captain got married. I was certainly the only witness present, and it meant something that Her Lordship was willing to trust me—me, and no one else—with such a private affair.

Everyone wore their working clothes. In fact, you'd think this wasn't a big step for either of them. Maybe it wasn't. They'd belonged to each other, in one way or another, for who-knew-how-long.

The ceremony was to be conducted by an Imperial officer—I hate to say it, but probably someone Her Lordship could silence if he turned out to have loose lips. I had the impression, though, that the man might have been recommended by the Captain as someone who could be discreet.

I stood across the table from the Captain, the official standing across from Her Lordship. On the table were several articles, which suggested to me a kind of mixed tradition ceremony—although the officer was conducting it, I had a part, kind of a Sith extension to the thing. It was what Her Lordship wanted, so why would I say no? It meant she trusted me.

The ubiquitous rings were present. The thicker band, clearly the Captain's, was gold and bore an amber-toned jewel, smooth-cut in such a way that an inner fire huddled in the heart of the stone. The thinner band, Her Lordship's, was silver and had a set-in faceted blue jewel that winked and twinkled as the light hit it.

I didn't miss _any_ of the symbolism there.

Also on the table were three small cups, not much bigger than teacups, of fine white porcelain. One held water, the second watered wine, the third undiluted wine.

"Are you ready?" the officer asked.

Her Lordship nodded, reaching up to remove the delicate gold and pearl tiara—the only deviation from 'working clothes' and added once we were all four alone—from her hair. She handed it ceremoniously to the Captain who took it from her and put it on the table, then took her hands in his.

A binding of equals.

I didn't miss that he gave her hands a gentle squeeze, and wondered if her fingers were cold with nerves after all. Bring on the battles, the Sith and the various monsters of the galaxy. A little old wedding? _So_ terrifying.

…or maybe it should be. Sith who love are vulnerable. And those who love them make good targets.

I won't let that happen. Not if I can do anything to help it.

"Do you know this man?" the officer asked.

"I know him." And she couldn't quite suppress her twisted smile. "The galaxy calls him Malavai Quinn."

"And how do you call him?"

"I call him husband."

"Perhaps." The officer transferred his attention to the Captain. "Do you know this woman?"

"I know her."

I tried not to fidget. There was something in his tone that made me feel… like I didn't belong. Then again, these two have been doing that to me since I joined Her Lordship's crew. They can hold hands, but they'd do it _just so_ and leave me feeling uncomfortable. It's a gift, it's got to be.

"The galaxy calls her Hellanix Renault."

"And how do you call her?"

"I call her wife," the Captain answered calmly.

"Perhaps." The officer picked up the rings. "My lord, do you consent to be bound to this man, to remain faithful, to serve the Empire and strengthen it through this union?"

Because, of course, he has to ask her first: she's the one marrying down. _Way_ down.

"I do," she answered.

The officer handed her the ring with its amber jewel. "Then make it known."

She slid the ring into place on the Captain's left hand.

"Captain, do you consent to be bound to this woman, to remain faithful, to serve the Empire and strengthen it through this union?"

"I do."

The officer handed over the other ring. "Then make it known."

She let him slide it onto her left ring finger, even though we all knew it wouldn't stay there. She explained this earlier: a ring is just a ring, an ornament, unless it's on the lockdown finger. On the right hand, she could wear it publically without drawing much suspicion (especially since she usually wears gloves). For the moment, though, everything was as it should be.

"Then be recognized as Hellanix and Malavai Quinn. Strengthen the Empire and one another." I had to admit, this fellow was taking things remarkably well. Not as though it was strange, outlandish even. "My lord?" He addressed this to me.

I picked up the cup with the water in it. "Today, you render your pasts empty, forsaking all who came before for the sake of the one you face now." I handed Her Lordship the cup. "Drink in acceptance."

Her Lordship did so. I took the cup from her and offered it to the Captain, who followed suit. I took the cup back from him.

"Today, your presents comingle. You are no longer two individual wholes, merely two halves, whole when together, broken when apart." I set the cup in their hands, his against the cup with hers over on one side, hers against the cup with his over on the other. "Drink in acceptance."

This time they both drank, half on their own, half assisted by their partner in a combined effort.

"Today you embark toward the future." I picked up the wine and looked into it. "Please be careful." They weren't the words I was supposed to use, but I don't think they'd object to something heartfelt. "Drink in acceptance, and seal all with a kiss." I handed the cup to the Captain, who brought it to Her Lordship's lips. She sipped, then took the cup from him and lifted it for him to drink.

I took the cup quickly, knowing that there was no way Her Lordship would dial back on kissing her beloved Captain. She worked too hard for him to pass up any opportunity for a lip-lock. And this would be one of the few times anyone would ever observe said show of affection. Nor did I expect anything less from the Captain.

It was almost painful to watch.

I'll never be this foolish. Then again, I'll never be as strong as Her Lordship.

"That's it, my lord, Captain," the officer announced. "You're officially wed. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of it."

Her Lordship nodded. "You may go."

The officer bowed, then withdrew.

"So… what now?" I asked uneasily.

"Darth Jadus has, so far, escaped the repercussions of his ill-advised actions. Since the Dark Council is unable to handle the matter, I shall," Her Lordship answered briskly. "And, naturally, I bring the very best to aid me in my work." She kissed the Captain's cheek, then (with a laugh) let him catch her for a kiss that made me look away, feeling squeamish in spite of the gesture's gentleness.

That probably shouldn't have surprised me in the slightest. They're not really honeymoon people and need to keep busy to be content.

"The ship is ready to depart at your command," the Captain announced. There was something impish in his expression that I didn't understand until I realized he didn't call her ' _my lord_ ' as he usually would have. Just leaving the honorific off seemed somehow… intimate.

"This is going to be dangerous. Are you ready?" Her Lordship breathed in a tone I was clearly not meant to hear.

"Danger only makes things more fun." The words were hers, but there was dead seriousness beneath the joking tone.

Suddenly… my fatalistic concern for their longevity seemed stupid. Silly. Ridiculous. Not the least because I'll see a threat coming long before they do. It's my gift, and I promised she would never need to ask me to use it.

-J-

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed, followed and faved! Your support for this story has been much appreciated!


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